Struggling Against Gravity
by musouka and Lerayl
Summary: A change in perspective has Phoenix trying to reestablish closer ties with his old friend, unaware there comes a point when you can't turn back. PhoenixEdgeworth.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes and Acknowledgements:**

I guess fanfics, like children, take a village to raise. First of all, if this fic is my baby, then Lerayl is the father; without her support and input, this fic wouldn't be here. It's as much hers as it is mine. It's as simple as that. CFTF is its godfather; thank you so much for putting up with us during the long months of hammering and fangirling. Your willingness to read and comment means so much for me. Same with my little brother, for helping me keep everyone in character and for reading this sucker out loud who knows how many times. Thank you to Lyssie for your encouragement; without your inspiring artwork it could have very well taken me even longer. Thank you to Julie for correcting my horrible grammar and being willing to invest your energy in a virtual stranger's work; you're an amazing beta and I'm honored for your time.

This fic takes place a year after the events of GS3. It is an AU that branches off the canon timeline at a certain point. Therefore there will be spoilers.

Struggling Against Gravity

Chapter One

The courthouse always looked different to Phoenix right after he finished a case. It wasn't just the looks on the faces of the people as they exited—talking to one another in hushed whispers and darting glances at him as he passed—but the walls themselves seemed changed, expanded. Usually in a good way, like that feeling of taking a deep breath of fresh air. But after a case like that one, all he really wanted to do was go and take a long nap, preferably in a place _without_ irritating prosecutors and accidental homicides centering around plungers.

On his way in, the walk to the courtroom doors always seemed too short, but today especially it felt like the walk towards the exit took half an hour. Part of it was the crowd. As he pushed past an older woman and what he assumed was her son, he felt like he had just exited a long, drawn out movie, with the tired, vaguely annoyed feeling that entailed. Too many people in one spot, moving in different directions.

All the courtroom lobbies on the first level spilled out into the main foyer of the building, a large, high-ceilinged lobby paneled with the same wood as the other waiting rooms, only with benches all along the perimeter instead of couches. There people sat, engrossed in documents, glaring furiously at their lawyers, children sleeping in their mother's laps, and, in the case of one overzealous couple: making out. Phoenix averted his eyes and focused on the exit doors instead. Almost there.

He reached to open the nearest one.

"Hey, pal!" The familiar voice boomed over the low hum in the lobby. Several lawyers glanced up, a look of annoyed recognition crossing their faces before going back to talking with their clients or one another. "I'm glad I caught you!"

For a brief moment, Phoenix considered continuing out the front as if he hadn't heard Gumshoe. His dress shirt was sticking to his back underneath his navy blue suit and he felt vaguely achy from standing so long; the post-trial high had already begun to wear off.

The moment passed. Phoenix turned to face the taller man, who was now breathing heavily from his mad dash across the room.

"What can I do for you, detective?" He sighed.

"Well, actually it's more about what I can—" Gumshoe broke off suddenly, and glanced to both sides of Phoenix, as though he were suddenly missing an appendage. "Hey, where's topknot?"

"Top…you mean Maya?" Phoenix asked. A man hefting a box of evidence cut between them abruptly, so Phoenix moved off to the side of the exit to continue their conversation.

"Yeah," Gumshoe grinned and scratched the back of his head. "It's weird to see you here without her, pal. She's like your trusty sidekick!"

Privately, Phoenix agreed. It never seemed quite right to go to trial without her standing by his side, not hearing her exclamations and encouragement. It had been especially strange to be met with an empty space where she should have been when he turned to see her reaction to the witness's testimony.

"She was called back to Kurain this morning. There was some sort of emergency." He tried to quash an irrational surge of irritation. Over the past year, Maya's duties had left him less and less time with her. She'd managed to make all of his trials except this one, but Phoenix hoped this wasn't a trend in the making.

Gumshoe nodded and stared at Phoenix expectantly. Phoenix waited.

And waited.

_Is that it?_

"…Nice seeing you, detective. Now, if you'll excuse me…" The defense attorney turned to escape.

"Hold it!"

"What?" Phoenix asked, scraping the bottom of his finite reserve of politeness.

Gumshoe's broad features collapsed into a dejected frown. "You don't have to be like _that_, pal."

"I'm sorry. It's just…I've had a long day, and I'd like to get home. So unless there's anything you need…" Phoenix gazed out the glass doors longingly. He was pretty sure he'd missed his bus by now.

"I wouldn't stop you, pal, if it wasn't something important."

Phoenix frowned. _It's obviously not _that _important if he won't tell me what it is!_

But Gumshoe was continuing. "It's about Mr. Edgeworth's trial. I, uh, really think you should come see it."

"Edgeworth?" At that name, Phoenix turned his full attention on Gumshoe. "Why, is there something wrong?"

"With Mr. Edgeworth? No, of course not!" Gumshoe said. "He's won every trial since he got back. Personally, between you and me, I don't think he's ever been better."

That was good to hear. A few months earlier, Edgeworth had returned to LA just as quickly as he left after his first—and last—trial as a defense attorney. From the way he had spoken before they parted ways, more than a year ago, Phoenix hadn't expected him to come back so soon. There had been undercurrents that he might not come back at all. Phoenix had refused to entertain that possibility.

Yet, here he was. Somehow. He had taken up his old job at the Prosecutor's Office, and, by all reports, was busy striking terror in the hearts of young defense attorneys throughout the district.

It was Gumshoe that had informed everyone that their old friend was returning and had organized the welcome back party and greeting at the airport. Phoenix could still remember the look on Edgeworth's face as he'd come down the escalator to the baggage claim and saw everyone there.

As soon as they caught sight of that unmistakable pink suit and cravat, Maya had hefted the hand-made sign reading "Welcome Home, Miles Edgeworth" far above her head, forcing Pearl to stand on tiptoes to hold her end up to make it readable, if still lop-sided. Both Larry and Gumshoe had started waving furiously, as though Edgeworth might somehow miss the detective towering over the two girls in their medium gear, not to mention Larry's bright orange jacket.

And Phoenix had just smiled.

It was so good to have him back.

The prosecutor had swallowed convulsively, the corner of his mouth twitching as though it couldn't quite decide the proper emotion to display. He'd finally settled on a frown once he reached the group. The first words out of his mouth were painfully stilted, about how unnecessary "all this" was.

No one was fooled.

Phoenix hadn't seen much of him after the subsequent party. He'd considered giving Edgeworth a call a couple of times, but talked himself out of it, thinking about how busy he must be trying to get settled back in. Most of their interaction had been limited to nodding at one another in the court hallways when they passed; they hadn't been assigned any cases opposite one another yet.

There was no rush. Edgeworth was back. It would happen eventually.

All the same, Phoenix didn't feel like sitting through another trial this afternoon, especially one that he wasn't even participating in.

"I don't think—" But Gumshoe had already made up his mind for him; a large hand grabbing his upper arm and a quick pull cut him off.

"Come on, pal. You're coming with me!" Gumshoe said.

Phoenix resigned himself as he was dragged through a crowd of people leaving courtroom number one. Many of them turned and stared curiously in the two men's wake. Gumshoe seemed oblivious as he took a quick left where the hallway branched. They moved past several paintings, another couch, and finally settled next to a bushy plant in a white planter—far away from the exit and all its seductive charms. Gumshoe let him go.

"All right." He grinned sheepishly. "It's taking place on the third level, courtroom seven. I don't have to haul you all the way there, do I, pal? Don't make me arrest you…"

_Don't make _me _sue _you! Phoenix rubbed his arm.

"Aww, don't look at me like that. You'll be happy you came, really. I just don't want to spoil the surprise."

"All right, all right, I'll go." Phoenix gave up, shoulders slumping slightly. _Otherwise he probably _will_ drag me there…_

* * *

The elevators in the courthouse were painfully slow, so Phoenix had plenty of time to inspect the buttons—round, numbers rubbing off from use—and ceiling—mirrored—on their ascent to the third floor. The thin carpeting in the front corner on Gumshoe's left was frayed and curling. There was also a faint suggestion of the smell of mildew in the air; Phoenix didn't want to think about the how or why of that one.

"Are you testifying today?" Phoenix finally asked the detective.

Gumshoe paused in staring at the numbers above the door and glanced at him, the same dejected look on his face he'd shown earlier. "No…that was yesterday, pal."

Looks like it didn't go so well… Phoenix shifted as the elevator shuddered on its climb. 

"Today I'm just an observer." Gumshoe's demeanor lightened noticeably; he'd seemingly forgotten his failure yesterday—whatever it had been. "I try to watch all of Mr. Edgeworth's trials. They're better than TV!"

_I guess that's easy to say when you can't afford cable. Or a television set._

Just then, the elevator eased to a stop and the doors opened.

The two of them stepped out into the paneled hallway. Courtroom seven was straight ahead—it was the closest of the three on the third floor. As they approached the lobby, Phoenix saw the heavy doors to the entrance were open, signifying that the trial was in recess.

Phoenix glanced around, but there was no sign of Edgeworth in the surprisingly thick crowd. _He's probably prepping a witness, or making sure his cravat is straight. _

On the other hand, he could see what he assumed was the defense attorney for the case sitting on the ubiquitous red lobby couch across the way, a folder thick with documents at his side. He was talking to a man Phoenix assumed was his client.

The attorney looked about Phoenix's age—in his late twenties—with non-descript, regular features and build. Even his suit was a dull gray. The thing that stood out the most was his hair. Though it was also an unremarkable brown shade, it looked as though he had rolled out of bed, put on his suit, and run to the courthouse without even stopping to comb it. As Phoenix watched, the lawyer ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture; that explained the odd styling choice.

The client's suit looked much more expensive than his attorney's, which was usually the case in Phoenix's experience; it was jet black and appeared custom-fitted. His dark hair was slicked back and looked so heavily greased that Phoenix half expected to see a rainbowed oil sheen when it caught the light. The man gestured to his attorney; Phoenix could hear bits and pieces of the conversation over the crowd noise.

"…prosecutor…"

_They're talking about Edgeworth?_ Phoenix moved closer.

"Don't go too far, pal," Gumshoe warned, glancing around the crowd as though he was looking for someone too. "They should start letting people back in soon."

Phoenix nodded, distracted, and kept moving towards the couch.

"…don't know what you're talking about," he heard the defendant say. "You already beat his 'one day win' streak."

"That was a fluke," the attorney said, fingers twisting in nervous knots. "He's…well, I didn't even know you had—"

The bailiff called the end of recess, cutting off whatever the attorney was about to say. The defense attorney sighed and heaved himself off the couch. Attorneys didn't have to go in until the crowd was seated, but it was getting thick over here so Phoenix could understand wanting to relocate. Phoenix turned to look for Gumshoe, but couldn't see the man in the flood of people moving towards the courtroom. He waited for a few moments before plunging into the crowd; Gumshoe was instantly recognizable, how hard could it be to find him?

Pretty hard, actually, Phoenix discovered. After several minutes of apologizing for getting in other peoples' way, he gave up going by height and instead focused on spotting the man's dark brown coat.

That didn't work either.

As the crowd thinned, he finally saw the detective over by the front of the doors talking to one of the guards.

"Detective Gumshoe!" he called. Gumshoe lifted his head and waited for Phoenix to make his way to the doorway.

"Took you long enough," the detective said. "Ready to go in?"

_It's not like we had a set meeting spot or anything,_ Phoenix inwardly protested. But he nodded and fell into step as Gumshoe waved goodbye to the guard and they made their way inside.Gumshoe started down the left—Edgeworth's side—automatically. Phoenix shrugged and followed.

"I think that side is full up," the bailiff said. Gumshoe glanced at Phoenix, as if to say 'this is _your_ fault, pal', but said nothing as they veered to the right instead.

Phoenix found it slightly disorienting to head _past_ the defense bench to the hidden set of stairs next to the judge's bench and up into the public gallery. Gumshoe's clomping footsteps were heavy behind him. The detective nearly ran into Phoenix's back when he stopped at the top to survey the seating options.

Instead of chairs there were three long rows of benches—not unlike church pews—that ran the entire length of the box. It was already crowded and growing more so as others shoved past Phoenix, turning to glare at him for blocking the way. Phoenix hurriedly took a seat near the end of one of the benches; Gumshoe settled in beside him.

A quick glance across the way told him that the bailiff had been correct; Edgeworth's side was even more packed than this one. It was strange; he hadn't heard anything about Edgeworth taking a high profile case—and that was the sort of thing that usually got around. Granted, it wasn't nearly as full as Engarde's trial was—that had been standing room only—but this crowd was nothing to sneeze at.

Phoenix leaned towards Gumshoe. "What's going on, why is it so full?"

"I don't know," Gumshoe whispered back. "My only guess is that people heard what happened yesterday…it wasn't this bad when I was testifying."

"What _did _happen yesterday?" Phoenix asked.

"It was a real mess, pal. It should have been an open and shut case, but—" Gumshoe broke off as Edgeworth made his entrance.

It would have been impossible to miss Edgeworth even without the signature pink and ruffles. Despite Gumshoe's earlier words about the state of the case, his stride was utterly confident. As soon as he made it to the prosecutor's bench, he began to shuffle through papers in quick, familiar motions, without sparing a glance for anything else.

_You'd never know he was gone for three years... _

Watching him made that sense of disorientation come back in full force. The angle seemed wrong, like he was too far away from where he was supposed to be. With Edgeworth in the same room the feeling that he should be down there, across from him, was multiplied ten-fold.

Phoenix's thoughts were interrupted by the familiar sound of the judge's gavel slamming down, officially beginning the trial once again. The murmuring filling the room settled into a sort of expectant calm.

"Now, shall we resume?" the judge asked, settling into his chair.

"The prosecution is ready, Your Honor," Edgeworth said, pushing his papers to the side in two neat piles.

"The defense is, uh, ready as well, Your Honor," the defense attorney responded, looking anything but. He was still scrambling to get everything properly organized.

_This is like watching a "fight" between a hawk and a mouse…_ Looking at the two of them, Phoenix couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the defense—though that led to the uncomfortable thought of other people watching from up here and pitying _him_.

"The prosecution is ready to call its second witness," Edgeworth said. The judge acquiesced with a nod. While they waited for the bailiff to bring him or her in, Phoenix took the time to study the defendant.

He blinked.

The defendant appeared to have split in two. One in the suit he'd seen in the lobby, the other in a stained mechanic's uniform. The one in the suit had a small bandage on his hand near his thumb; the other's entire hand was wrapped in thick, white gauze.

_Twins, huh?_ Phoenix thought he now had a pretty good idea of what went wrong with yesterday's trial. It was easy to imagine the look on Edgeworth's face when _that_ little tidbit of information was brought to light. Especially if it had been a surprise. There were few things the prosecutor liked less than "surprises" disrupting his trials.

_Poor Gumshoe_. It was equally easy to imagine the tongue lashing the detective had gotten because of that oversight. _No wonder he was so depressed earlier_.

Phoenix quickly glanced at the detective to his left, but Gumshoe's attention was focused on the defendant. As if he stared hard enough, he could put the man away through sheer force of will. Asking him if he thought the defendant did it was probably pointless; if there was one thing Gumshoe tended to be certain on, it was the guilt of the accused. _Too bad it's not always that easy…_

* * *

The bailiff announced the new witness, a young woman Phoenix estimated to be in her early twenties. Her hair was dark brown and tied back in a high ponytail. She was wearing a white lab coat—Phoenix assumed that she was CSI, meaning she worked for Edgeworth—but the pastel pink shirt peeking out from underneath was surprisingly casual for someone working on the force, as were the belt and blue jeans. Then again, Phoenix had seen a lot of pretty unusual outfits when it came to his dealings with the police. This wasn't even on the radar compared to some.

She had a nametag clipped to the coat, but it was too difficult to read at this angle, even though he squinted desperately, trying to remember where he'd seen her, hoping her name would jog his memory. She seemed so familiar. A pair of glasses were perched high on her head, above her bangs. As she was led to the stand she adjusted them in a quick motion.

"Witness, please state your name and occupation."

For some reason, it was the dark bag resting easily against her hip that made everything click into place. Phoenix sharply turned to Gumshoe, only to realize Gumshoe had been looking at him the entire time. He seemed to be trying not to smile. "Wait a minute, is that—"

"Ema Skye, I'm an SOCO…sorry, forensic science technician with the police department," she said.

"That's right, pal!" Gumshoe didn't bother hiding his delight at Phoenix's stunned silence.

When did she… 

"Just about a month ago. Passed the test into the CSI division by the skin of her teeth. She's worked a couple cases before this, but this is the first time she's testified in a trial," Gumshoe hurriedly explained.

Ema had already started. "…when I ran the tests, I found two sets of fingerprints on the—"

"Hold it!"

She paused in mid-sentence, looking thrown. The defense attorney continued, tripping over his words; he seemed desperate to shove them out of his mouth before something cut him off. "Miss Skye, if t-there were two sets of prints then who's to say my client is the guilty party?"

Edgeworth's objection was swift in coming. The sound of his hand slamming down on his table echoed throughout the room. "Mr. Seize, if you had allowed her to finish her sentence, you'd know we identified both prints." The 'you're an utter moron' was merely implied, not stated. Seize flushed an ugly shade of red anyway. "Please continue, Ms. Skye."

"I found two sets of fingerprints on the handle of the kitchen faucet in the victim's apartment. One was the deceased, Ms. Moore's, the other was the defendant, Mr. Black's."

Seize chuckled lowly. That nervous, cowed demeanor was abruptly gone, making Phoenix briefly wonder if the man had been replaced by an identical twin of his own. "What you're implying is outlandish. Mr. Edgeworth, my client and the deceased were in a romantic relationship! It would be unnatural for his fingerprints _not_ to be in her apartment. It's like accusing me of murdering my wife because my fingerprints are on our television remote."

Phoenix frowned to himself. He didn't know the entire background on the case, but if this was what Edgeworth's case hinged upon, and what Seize said was true, it seemed to be a particularly slender rope to hang a man. Unless the sink's handle was the murder weapon.

But Edgeworth seemed unruffled by the change in Seize's attitude. _He's completely sure Black is guilty,_ Phoenix realized. There must have been more to those fingerprints than met the eye.

As though in answer, Edgeworth opened one of the files next to him. "You haven't forgotten your own client's testimony, have you?" he asked, holding the paper up as he quoted the relevant section. "_Antonia was a great girlfriend. She was practically obsessive-compulsive about keeping me out of the kitchen, wouldn't even let me step in there. She waited on me hand and foot, and she kept things spotless—just the way I like them. Why would I kill her?_"

But Seize wasn't finished. "An obvious exaggeration. The point is that Miss Moore was attentive to his needs, not that he never actually walked into the kitchen."

Now it was Edgeworth's turn to smirk and shake his head as though he pitied Seize. Having been on the receiving end of the smirk-and-shrug combination more times than he liked, Phoenix knew Edgeworth was about to unleash something pivotal Seize was overlooking. Suddenly Phoenix was glad he _wasn't_ down there for a change.

"You focused on the wrong part of your client's testimony, Mr. Seize. The issue is with 'she kept things spotless'."

Even in profile, Seize's dawning recognition and subsequent grimace were sights to behold. Sweat beaded on his brow. Still, he rallied. "T-that doesn't mean…"

"Ms. Skye, please testify as to what else you found in the kitchen," Edgeworth interrupted.

Ema nodded and resumed her testimony. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Seize echoed weakly.

"Nothing except the two types of blood discovered in the drain yesterday. No other fingerprints," Ema replied. "I checked thoroughly."

Edgeworth's thin smile didn't reach his eyes. They were fixed on the defendant. "Ms. Moore did indeed keep her kitchen spotless. Mr. Black, yesterday you testified that you left before she cleaned up from dinner…"

Ema took over effortlessly, like she was finishing his thought. "We know from the glass of water found at the scene there was a reason for her fingerprints to be on the handle after the kitchen was clean, but not the defendant's."

The judge spoke, "Yes, what you're saying does sound suspicious…"

At that, Black got up and slowly sauntered to the witness stand. When he cleared his throat loudly, Ema stepped aside so he could address the judge, but not before glancing at Edgeworth again. He gave a curt nod in response.

"I have something to say," Black tossed his words out carelessly.

The judge turned his gaze to Edgeworth. "Mr. Edgeworth?"

"I have no objections."

"Mr. Seize?"

"No objections, Your Honor." Far from it—he looked like a thirsty man just given a glass of cold water.

Ema took a seat on Edgeworth's side as Black moved into place, but Phoenix found himself studying the prosecutor instead. He'd added a few strands to his rope, but not even the notoriously fickle judge was jumping to pronounce Black guilty.

Black began, but not before slicking back his hair and flashing a toothy grin at the gallery. "I was wrong about what I said earlier. I did leave after Antonia tidied up. On my way out, I stopped to wash my hands—not because of this—" he flashed his bandaged hand at the judge. "—this happened later. As I said yesterday, the only way my DNA could have gotten there is if Jude left it."

"Hmm, yes…I see…you washed your hands. That would explain your fingerprints." The judge nodded. "Your thoughts, Mr. Edgeworth?"

"Your brother testified that he'd never even seen the victim before," Edgeworth replied.

_Ignoring the explanation for the fingerprints? That's strange._ Phoenix didn't realize how far forward he was leaning until he nearly slipped off the edge of the bench. Luckily he caught himself from falling in time to hear Black's response.

Black smiled again. "Yes, well, I doubt my brother knew many of the people he's robbed."

Black's brother showed no reaction to the statement except a slight stiffening in his shoulders, like the chair had gotten a little harder, a little more uncomfortable. Edgeworth stood silent, as if waiting for something.

"Is that all? I explained the fingerprints," Black finally said. "Seems to me you don't have a leg to stand on any more."

"You're sure you washed your hands _after_ she cleaned up, defendant?" Edgeworth asked.

"Yes, one hundred percent positive. That's why my fingerprints are there," came the offhand reply. "If I'd done it before like I said yesterday, she would have wiped them away. That's what you were implying, right? But just because my fingerprints are on the handle of some faucet doesn't mean I killed my girlfriend."

Edgeworth smirked and raised his hand to his temple, finger tapping against it in a chiding motion. "Thank you for verifying your whereabouts, Mr. Black. The only two people that entered the kitchen _after_ dinner were the victim and the killer." He paused to reach down underneath the desk, bringing forth a knife, carefully bagged and labeled. Though benign in any kitchen, here in the courtroom the chef's knife seemed imbued with certain malice. It was obviously the murder weapon. "And this will prove it."

The room exploded in a frenzy of loud whispers. _I hope he knows what he's doing, because I'm not following,_ Phoenix thought. The judge banged his gavel and called for order, with limited success. Though it all Edgeworth stood quietly with his arms folded, the calm eye of the storm raging in the courtroom.

* * *

What followed was familiar to Phoenix as a lawyer. Even removed from the action and barely following the case, he was surprised to find his pulse racing at the rapid volley of objections and counter objections. The dull sound of hands thudding against wood reverberated through the air. The judge's head jerked back and forth, like he was watching a particularly heated ping-pong match.

The point of contention had shifted to the chef's knife. After the court finally settled down, Edgeworth went on to explain that due to the blood residue found in the kitchen sink, and the way the knife's handle had been wiped, they knew it had been washed. Since the victim was in no condition to wash the knife after being stabbed nine times, that left the murderer. And there was only one set of prints aside from the victim's on the sink's handle: Black's.

Seize wasn't going down without a fight, but he wasn't gaining any ground against Ema and Edgeworth. Every time he tried to interject, Edgeworth would swoop in, turn things around, and prompt Ema to continue testifying. Watching the two of them, Phoenix was reminded of something that Gumshoe said a long time ago, about the bond of trust between those that worked on the police force and the prosecutors. At the time, he hadn't really understood.

Now he did.

Both of them were working together to build a wall. Bit by bit, the evidence mounted. It was something that would have been impossible to grasp if not for his current observation point. If he was down there, he'd be too busy dismantling that wall—probing for its weak spots—to appreciate the work and trust that went into building it in the first place.

"W-wait a second!" Seize finally stuttered. "Gloves! The criminal could have been wearing gloves."

_He could have pointed that out ten minutes ago, instead of arguing that his client didn't touch the sink in the first place,_ Phoenix noted, glad the attorney finally picked up on something that had been nagging him for the past few minutes.

This time Edgeworth didn't even have to say anything. "I already thought of that," Ema replied, with a jaunty tilt to her chin and a smug grin on her face.

"You did?" Seize said, visibly deflating.

"It's impossible. The killer wasn't wearing gloves." She was utterly firm and confident. "On the handle, close to the bolster, there's a place the killer forgot to wipe clean. I found an unidentifiable partial there. This _was_ in the report I typed up, you know."

"B-but! Then you don't know whose it was! It could have been from the victim!" Seize protested.

"You have a wife, don't you, Mr. Seize?" Ema suddenly asked, looking serious.

"Yes, I do, but I don't see what that has to do with—"

"Have you ever compared your hands to your wife's hands? Like, held them up to one another?" she interrupted.

"Yes, of course. But, Miss Skye, I really don't see how she—"

"Did you notice anything about the two? Like, oh say, the _size difference_?"

There was a pregnant pause. Seize suddenly seemed to find the top of his desk absolutely fascinating.

"Yes, that's right," Ema continued. "The print was _too big_ to be the victim's—it came from a man. But just to be sure, I double-checked it against Ms. Moore's. Her hands are too small for it to be a match."

Silence spread thickly over the court. It felt as though everyone was holding his or her breath, eyes beating with laser-like focus on the defense's bench.

"Mr. Seize?" the judge prompted.

Seize looked up abruptly, expression unreadable. "Miss Skye. Did you check that print against anyone else?"

"Just Mr. Black, to make sure the size was a possible match," she said, a note of caution coloring her voice.

"So, only my client." He nodded to himself. "No one on…for example, the police force?"

It was Edgeworth who responded this time. "What are you trying to imply?"

"Well, Miss Skye being new to the force and all, perhaps she wasn't as thorough as she should have—"

"I…" Ema gripped her bag strap tightly, knuckles whitening. "It's consistent with the size of the suspect's prints!"

Beside Phoenix, Gumshoe made a sympathetic hiss. "Ouch, that one hit a raw nerve." At Phoenix's curious look, he clarified, "the prosecutor in charge of her first case caught a bad mistake she made during the investigation. Happened just a few weeks ago. Gotta sting when a fellow rookie humiliates you in front of your entire department, pal."

"And it could be consistent with the size of a detective's fingerprints," Seize said. "Perhaps one that's prone to making mistakes? We all know the police force is currently a little…well, let's just say it wouldn't be the first time procedure hadn't been properly followed. But now we'll never know."

"Ms. Skye," Edgeworth began. Far from relieving Ema's tension, she actually jerked at the sound of her name.

"There was no reason to check the prints of those working on the investigation!" she said, speaking over Edgeworth. It was the first time she hadn't let him say his piece. Edgeworth looked vaguely surprised, an expression Phoenix was sure he mirrored.

"But there's always the possibility…" Seize trailed off.

To make matters worse, the judge nodded as the defense attorney spoke. "Yes, if there's no proof that the print is Mr. Black's, then I don't see how it can be used as evidence."

Phoenix heard low murmurs shifting through the courtroom. Someone behind him whispered, "what are the police thinking, trying to convict someone on such shaky grounds?"

"But!" Even from up in the gallery, Phoenix could see Ema's jaw tightening in frustration. Or was it an attempt to keep from crying? Phoenix's stomach twisted; this was beginning to remind him of a particular painful memory. "There's no proof that it _wasn't_ him! It's the only thing that makes sense!"

"You don't seem so sure, Miss Skye..." Seize's smugness seemed unbearable. Ema's gaze was directed at the ceiling—her throat constricting—and then, slowly, the floor. Anywhere, it seemed, except in Edgeworth's direction.

"Objection!" For a split second, it was as though no one could quite tell where the sound had come from. Then, moving as one, everyone's head turned towards the prosecution bench to where Edgeworth stood. "This accusation is ridiculous."

It was a pronouncement. A statement of fact, not a suggestion.

And, for a moment, Phoenix forgot to breathe.

In Edgeworth's objection, he heard a faint echo of nineteen years ago—the tinge of a high and youthful voice, utterly sure, calling out to protect the wrongfully accused.

Phoenix had assumed that part of Edgeworth had been strangled in the aftermath of DL-6 and had adjusted his image of his old friend accordingly. It never occurred to Phoenix that impulse had been channeled in another direction.

Even now, Miles Edgeworth was still defending people.

"The court doesn't deal in 'possibilities', it deals with _evidence,_" Edgeworth said. "_All_ of the men and women working under me are highly trained professionals. Picking up evidence at a crime scene without gloves isn't a mistake any of them would make. If you believe one of them did, where's your proof?"

"You don't know that they didn't," Seize replied.

"Yes, I do," came the rejoinder. "Direct your attention to Ms. Skye's report." At mention of her name, Ema looked up. "Page three. The part about the fingerprint."

Seize reached across the desk and began paging through a folder. "Yes, it says it's a partial print of a pinky finger. I don't see how this changes anything."

Edgeworth sighed, then continued, pointing to emphasize his words. "The bolster is between the blade and handle of the knife. If one of my men picked up the knife carelessly, the partial would be of a _thumb_. The only reason for a pinky print to be there is if you're holding the knife in your fist, like you're about to stab someone."

Seize flinched, grabbing the edge of his desk for support. "You mean…"

"Yes. As Ms. Skye said, there was no reason to check it against the investigation team's prints. It _had_ to come from the murderer," Edgeworth said.

Phoenix saw Seize's eyes racing, as though the answer to his predicament stood invisible in front of him, if he could only read it. _Don't bother,_ Phoenix wordlessly responded. _Somehow he managed to do it. Even without a single identifiable print on the murder weapon._ It was clear Edgeworth's time in Europe had left him sharp as ever.

"Yes, I understand your point, Mr. Edgeworth," the judge said. "Truly remarkable. I believe there's nothing left but the verdict."

Edgeworth bowed in response, a look of almost irritating satisfaction clear on his face, in his smile. "Of course."

"Very well. This court finds the defendant, Mr. Felix Black…"

"Hold it!" Seize's voice was loud, but still quavered.

"Yes, Mr. Seize?" the judge asked. "I don't think there's anything left in defense of your client."

"H-his brother!" Seize stammered. Jude glanced up from his intense contemplation of the courtroom floor—Phoenix had nearly forgotten he was there—but didn't say anything in response to Seize's invocation. He looked resigned, like he had expected this to happen long before this point. Seize continued. "Wouldn't the print size be a match there as well?"

"His brother's fingerprints weren't on the sink," Edgeworth parried, looking bored.

"They're identical twins! Doesn't that…couldn't it be possible that, um, their fingerprints are identical too?" The silence was so sudden and still a pin could have dropped on the other side of the room and been perfectly audible. Even Seize flushed in embarrassment. "Well, I mean…"

The judge's eyes widened. His jaw dropped. "Mr. Seize, that…is an _excellent_ point. Your thoughts, Mr. Edgeworth?"

Edgeworth reacted as though someone punched him in the stomach. His eyes bulged, and he took an involuntary half step back, jaw clenching. "You…Your Honor!" he protested, hunching over his desk as if the blow had left him unable to stand. "That's…"

Even Phoenix was taken aback. _Poor Edgeworth. I'm not sure I could respond to that either._

"You have no rebuttal?" the judge asked, looking surprised. Seize stood there shell-shocked, blinking rapidly like he expected the scene before him to melt away at any moment.

"I…that's…" Edgeworth made a valiant effort to collect himself. "…not possible. They don't have identical fingerprints," he finally managed to spit out, straightening up.

"Why not?" The judge blinked. "They have the same DNA, right?"

Edgeworth reeled once more. Phoenix winced. Sure, by now there had been plenty of times Edgeworth's trials had gone south at the last minute, but generally because he had pointed the finger at the wrong person, not because the judge wasn't up on his genetics.

Seize shifted awkwardly. _Probably doesn't know if he should step in and help or take the verdict and run. _Phoenix knew what he would do, but not all defense attorneys were like him. Still, for some reason…it_ grated_ to see Edgeworth put in this position. Perhaps it was because Phoenix could remember all the times Edgeworth had stepped in on his behalf, even against the prosecutor's best interests.

"Are you okay, pal?" Gumshoe whispered. Phoenix started at the sound. Looking down, he saw his hands were balled against his pants, material clenched tightly in his fingers.

He forced himself to relax, releasing the fabric. "I'm fine," he responded. "It's just, isn't anyone going to _do_ anything? Black's going to get away at this rate if Edgeworth can't pull himself together."

"If the prosecution can't raise any objections…"

"Your Honor, fingerprints aren't decided by DNA!" The voice came not from the prosecutor's bench, but from the witness stand. Edgeworth straightened again. Ema hadn't said anything since Edgeworth had came to her defense, but now she addressed the judge directly. "They're formed in the womb."

"But, if they're twins, they were both in the same womb at the same time," the judge protested.

Hey, shouldn't this be the defense attorney's job? 

"Think of it this way, Your Honor." Phoenix recognized that note in Ema's voice. It had been there four years ago when she talked about luminol testing, dusting for fingerprints, and examining items—that excitement at imparting knowledge. "People can be in the same place at the same time, but will their _experiences_ be the same? Fingerprints are like people's memories—no two are alike, all of them unique to the person in question. Doesn't that make sense?"

_Not really, no_. But Phoenix had to smile regardless; seeing this side of Ema was like seeing an old, though still slightly incoherent, friend.

"Hmm, yes." The judge nodded. "I see now. That's a poetic turn of phrase, young lady. Reminds me of my youth…"

"Thank you, Your Honor." Ema smiled.

_Wait, it actually_ worked? Phoenix sighed; upon reflection, this probably didn't even make the top ten of the craziest things he'd ever seen at a trial.

"All right, now that everything is _finally_ settled, and if we're done wasting time—" That was aimed in Seize's general direction. "—I think we can all agree on the proper verdict," the judge said.

He's_ the one that caused the delay._ Phoenix rolled his eyes. Seize seemed to fold in on himself before sighing and nodding his head in acceptance.

"This court finds the defendant, Mr. Felix Black…"

"Hold it!" rang out once again through the courtroom. Phoenix manfully resisted the urge to lower his face into his hands—and he thought _his_ trial today had been a pain. Was every day in court like this for Edgeworth?

"Mr. Seize…" the judge began.

"It wasn't me, Your Honor," Seize protested, jerking his head towards the witness stand like he was physically trying to shake the judge's glare off.

It was Black, breathing heavily. He leaned over the podium, trying to get as close to the judge as possible, ignoring both prosecutor and defense attorney. Great rivulets of sweat streamed down his face; tendrils of his hair escaped his previously perfectly coifed, slicked back style and stuck plastered against his forehead.

Ema stood off to the side, rubbing her arm from where Black shoved her out of the way, brows furrowed. Edgeworth's face was an unreadable mask; it was impossible for Phoenix to tell if this was something the prosecutor planned or if it was another unexpected upset. He was surprisingly calm if it was the latter.

"W-what…" Even the judge was taken aback, leaning backwards like he was trying to escape Black just as much as Black was trying to close the distance. "Y-you have something to add, defendant?"

"This is…this is _obscene_!" Black hissed. As he spoke, his hand began pulling at the corner of his bandage in twitchy movements, like a fly trying to wrestle its way out of a spider web. "You can't even prove I touched the murder weapon and you're going to find me _guilty_?"

The judge's eyes darted towards Edgeworth. "Well, his case—"

"—is based on **nothing**!" Black snarled. "Let me tell you something, Your Honor! The only good thing about that…woman…was that she could cook. She thought she could walk out on _me_? That fat cow? I'm not sorry she's dead! But you have nothing tying me to this case! Prove I touched the knife! You _can't!_"

"You're the one that said you were sure about the timing in the kitchen," Edgeworth said. "If someone else was the killer, where are his fingerprints?"

"And what if I take it back?" Black switched his attention to Edgeworth effortlessly. The cords on his neck strained. He ripped at the bandage now, tearing it halfway off as his movements grew more and more frenzied. "What if I say I was mistaken again? What will you do? Your case will completely collapse! And that's what you plan to _convict_ me on? Smoke and mirrors? The 'demon prosecutor's' traps and tricks?"

Edgeworth remained silent.

"I should be able to walk out of here right now! You have nothing!"

_He's not doing much to make himself look innocent_. Phoenix turned to Gumshoe to gauge his reaction to all this. The detective's eyes remained fixed on the raving man below, back tense.

"…_nothing_!" The last of the bandage flew off; Black flung it to the floor as though punctuating his final yell. When no one responded, he stood there panting, hands gripping the edge of the witness stand so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Finally: "Mr. Black, what is that on your hand?" Edgeworth's voice was deadly calm, quiet, yet somehow it seemed louder than Black's roaring.

Black clapped his hand over the other, all color bleeding from his face. Too late, even Phoenix had seen the five gouges around the area of his thumb, stark red against his tense, pale hands. The marks a woman with long fingernails, clawing and grasping for her life, would leave.

"T-that's…" He turned to look over his shoulder. The guards moved closer to the exit in response.

"…'nothing'?" Edgeworth finished.

Black swallowed tightly, then grinned. It was a pale imitation of the one Phoenix saw earlier—the corners of his mouth twitching, no show of teeth. His shoulders slumped as the tension drained out of his body. "Yeah, Mr. Prosecutor. Nothing."

Things moved quickly after that. The judge read the verdict, a foregone conclusion at this point. Black made no move to struggle when the guards came up to the stand, wrenched his arms behind his back, and led him away.

All of this happened in the corner of Phoenix's vision. His eyes, his focus, remained on Edgeworth.

* * *

Gumshoe and Phoenix waited until the crowd thinned before leaving the courtroom. Both Edgeworth and Seize had packed up quickly and left—after the typical scheduling of post-trial meetings—before the last of the crowd dispersed.

Phoenix hadn't realized how muggy it was inside until he exited and the relatively fresh air ran cold against his skin.

"Wasn't that something, pal?" Gumshoe beamed as though he'd put Black away himself.

"It really was," Phoenix admitted, remembering the look of tired contentment that had settled on Edgeworth's face as the verdict was passed down—so different from his usual victorious smirk. _He was right. I'm glad I came._

"Ema was great, huh?" Gumshoe said.

"Especially near the end there," Phoenix said as they walked. "I really didn't know what was going to happen until she stepped in."

"And Mr. Edgeworth…" Gumshoe stopped. It seemed they both caught sight of the prosecutor at the same time. He was standing over on the far side of the lobby, Ema facing him, nodding at something she was saying.

"Hey, Mr. Edgeworth!" Gumshoe bellowed across the room. Edgeworth's head flew up—_he must be used to it too,_ Phoenix thought. As they closed the gap, he and Edgeworth locked eyes. Phoenix saw Edgeworth stiffen in recognition, a complex mixture of emotions flickering across his face—too rapid for Phoenix to read—before he collected himself.

"Wright, what are you doing here?" It wasn't hostile, but it was abrupt.

_Nice to see you too, Edgeworth._ That answered the question of whether the prosecutor had noticed his presence during the trial. Phoenix was suddenly reminded of Edgeworth's aversion to surprises.

Ema turned around at the name "Wright". Underneath the veneer of the young woman, he saw traces of the teenager he remembered in the delighted grin quickly spreading from ear to ear.

"Mr. Wright!" she exclaimed, moving in for a hug. Phoenix returned it somewhat awkwardly, but no less emotionally. "It's been forever! What _are_ you doing here?"

"Detective Gumshoe brought me to see your first trial," Phoenix said. Edgeworth seemed to relax at that.

"More like dragged you," Gumshoe corrected before turning to Ema. "I was just telling him how great you did, pal. Especially for an intern. Anyone would've sworn you were a true professional watching you up there!"

"Well, I _am_ a professional, Detective," Ema replied. But she was smiling.

"Intern?" Phoenix asked. _He didn't tell me anything about that. _On giving it thought, it was true that Ema would have been unusually young for a fully licensed forensic scientist, but stranger things had happened in this precinct.

"Right," Ema said. "They told me after I passed the initial test that one of my options was to keep studying where I was, but the reason I went to Europe in the first place was so I could be here, on the field. So why would I wait?"

"And they let you prepare key trial evidence and testify?"

"Of course," she replied, with an easy grin and a toss of the head. "Hands on experience is the best."

_Or they were desperate_. That seemed a more likely scenario.

"I was supposed to testify at an earlier trial, but…" Ema trailed off, biting her lip. Her earlier confidence seemed to waver at the recollection.

_That's right. _"Detective Gumshoe told me what happened," Phoenix said. Ema blinked in surprise, then shot a look at Gumshoe, who raised his hands defensively.

"It was a stupid mistake with the blood work," she said. "I know I still have a lot to learn, but if I had just..." She shook her head. "Let's just say I'm glad my first trial was with Mr. Edgeworth." Her smile returned as she turned to the prosecutor. Edgeworth had been watching Phoenix and Ema's reunion in silence, and seemed somewhat startled at being dragged back into the conversation. "It was an honor working with you, sir."

Phoenix saw the long-dormant embers of a schoolgirl crush pop and spark in her gaze, before dying back down into a respectful, professional admiration. If Edgeworth noticed, he gave no sign. He was too busy examining the ceiling and the surrounding walls—_not_ meeting anyone's gaze.

"Thank you," he finally managed with something approaching grace. "It was a pleasure working with you too, Ms. Skye."

"Didn't she do wonderfully?" a voice asked from behind. "I knew she would."

Phoenix turned around. For a moment, he didn't recognize the woman with the quiet smile and laugh lines etched beneath her eyes; his memories were of her in jail, expression pale and taut.

Ema answered his unspoken question for him. "Sis, you made it!"

"Yes, I got out early," Lana said. The two sisters looked at one another. Phoenix thought they were going to hug, but instead Lana put her arm around Ema's shoulders and gave a quick squeeze.

"This is quite a reunion," she said, looking at Phoenix.

"It is," he said, quietly. He was glad to see she was doing all right.

If possible, her eyes warmed further. It felt like stepping into a sunny patch of light. Phoenix was struck even further by how different she was from when he had defended her in court, when her words had cut and her gaze was ice.

"I was just telling Mr. Edgeworth what an honor it was working with him," Ema said to her sister.

"I heard," Lana said. She glanced at Edgeworth. Something seemed to pass between them, a silent communication only the two of them could understand. "Thank you for taking care of my little sister."

Edgeworth nodded in response.

Ema raised her hand to touch her sister's, briefly, as she turned her head to look around the room—at the small crowd of friends and family that surrounded her. "I've got an idea!" she said, eyes lighting up, "Why don't we all go out to celebrate?"

Inwardly, Phoenix winced reflexively, already anticipating the bill that would inevitably fall to him. Still, he thought, listening to Ema's voice rise with excitement, it might not be a bad idea.

"Oh…" Lana's hand flew to her chest. "Actually, I…already made dinner reservations. That's why I came over here; the trial ran a little longer than expected and I didn't want us to be late." She looked apologetic. "I suppose I could cancel if you want."

Now Ema looked surprised. "N-no, I'm…I'd like that. We haven't had a chance to really sit down and catch up yet."

_Still a little bit awkward, huh?_ Phoenix smiled. It was to be expected. Ema left while Lana was still in jail, and while he was sure they'd been in contact, they probably hadn't had much time face-to-face yet.

"All right," he said. "You two go ahead."

"No, no," Ema exclaimed, hastily. "I'm sure we can pull up another table. Right, Sis?" She looked over her shoulder at Lana for confirmation.

"Sorry, pal," Gumshoe said, "I actually need to get back to the precinct. There was something the chief said during the morning briefing about a meeting near the end of the day." He grinned sheepishly. "I figured this was more important, though!"

_And that is why Detective Gumshoe has trouble paying his rent_, Phoenix inwardly sighed.

"Some other time, all right?" Gumshoe grinned broadly when Ema nodded. "You keep up the good work, pal. I know you will."

"Naturally!"

Gumshoe gave her a thumbs-up before beating a hasty retreat down the hall.

Edgeworth, meanwhile, was looking at Lana again, and Phoenix once more got the impression they were speaking without words. He seemed to come to a decision.

"I can't make it either," Edgeworth said. He paused for a split second. "I need to get this paperwork filed."

_Ouch, why doesn't he just use the good old 'I have to wash my hair'?_ But that slight hesitation had told Phoenix all he needed to know. There would be plenty of time to get re-acquainted with Ema; tonight, her sister came first.

"What about you, Mr. Wright?" Ema asked.

"No," he said, "I've really got to be getting back, too." _I was planning on having been home hours before now, anyway._ He thought he saw Edgeworth nod at him, subtly, from the corner of his eye.

"In that case, we should be going now," Lana said. Then, turning to Edgeworth, "I suppose I'll see you in court."

"Yes." He nodded. "I look forward to it."

"A pleasure, as always, Mr. Wright," she added, turning once more to Phoenix. Ema grinned at him once more, adjusting the goggles resting on her head, before following her sister at a brisk stride towards the courthouse exit.

"What did she mean by seeing you in court?" Phoenix asked when the women and the detective were out of eyesight. In what seemed like a matter of seconds, he and Edgeworth had been left by themselves. "After what happened with Gant, I thought..."

"She's a defense attorney now," Edgeworth said. Phoenix blinked in surprise. That wasn't a career choice he had expected for Lana Skye. Technically, he supposed that it made sense, as her ties to the Prosecutor's Office had been irrevocably cut—but the option of working for the opposite bench had honestly never occurred to him.

Thinking of Lana's smile, and the gentle encouragement she had given her sister, though, he thought it was probably the best thing for her. In the back of his mind, he recalled that faint echo of Mia that had startled him when he had first met the former Chief Prosecutor, more than three years ago.

"Wow…" he managed.

"It wouldn't be the first time," Edgeworth said, turning to face Phoenix. "It's actually pretty common. I'm surprised you haven't heard of her recent work before now."

"As long as she's happy," Phoenix said. She certainly seemed so. Edgeworth nodded, and the conversation lapsed into a familiar, slightly uncomfortable silence.

Phoenix wondered why one of them didn't take their leave and be done with it; they'd both had long days. Just a few hours ago, his greatest wish was to take a shower and a nap. It was hard to imagine Edgeworth didn't feel the same way; the edges of his dark bangs still clung to his forehead and, this close, the circles under his eyes were obvious.

So Phoenix was just as surprised as Edgeworth when the words out of his mouth weren't 'see you around'.

"Actually, a celebration does sound good to me," he said. "Why don't we get something to eat?"


	2. Chapter 2

Struggling Against Gravity  
Chapter Two

Phoenix didn't know exactly what answer he'd expected from Edgeworth upon his invitation, but it hadn't been this long, painful stretch of silence. He shifted his weight on to his other foot as he waited, seconds slowing down to hours.

Edgeworth's non-response seemed to come in stages. First, a blank stare, as though he had failed to register what Phoenix had just said. Then his eyes slid to the direction of the exit behind the defense attorney, as though he wanted to escape the awkward situation entirely. Finally he returned his attention back to the court files still in his arms—a different sort of evasion.

By this point Phoenix was sure the other man was trying to come up with a better excuse than 'filing paperwork'. While Phoenix appreciated the sentiment, he was entirely capable of understanding if Edgeworth wanted to go home, pour himself a glass of wine, and lounge around in a fluffy pink bathrobe—or whatever he did to relax.

_It's not like I have a gun to his head,_ Phoenix thought. Just as he was about to rescind the invitation and cut his losses, the other man came to a decision.

"All right," Edgeworth finally said.

"If you don't want—huh?" Phoenix swallowed the rest of his sentence, not quite sure how to respond. The only thing that sprang readily to mind was asking 'are you _sure_?' which didn't seem to be the proper sort of reply—and made him wonder why he'd put forth the invitation in the first place if he was so sure Edgeworth would turn him down.

So now it was his turn to go through the three stages of awkward silence as Edgeworth waited. If Phoenix had suddenly become tongue-tied, it seemed as though Edgeworth had found his voice at last. "Where did you have in mind?"

_Good question_. Phoenix really _hadn't_ thought beyond the spur-of-the-moment overture. This was difficult. He knew all the hamburger joints (there were seventeen) within walking distance because of Maya's influence, but it was hard to imagine Edgeworth wanting to eat at "Joe's Burger Shack". There were also problems inherent in letting Edgeworth choose the restaurant; Phoenix didn't relish the thought of paying approximately the same for a plate of food as he did his monthly electric bill.

He wracked his brain for a few more moments—Mexican didn't really appeal tonight; he'd heard there was a decent Russian restaurant in the general vicinity, but he couldn't remember where it was supposedly located—before admitting, "I don't know. Why don't we just see what's in the area?"

The slight frown on Edgeworth's face told Phoenix the prosecutor was once again questioning how good an idea this dinner really was, but it didn't seem Edgeworth had any alternatives to offer, so he gave a short nod and hefted his files slightly. "Let me put these away in my car. I'll be right back."

"I'll meet you outside." Phoenix said, motioning to the exit. He assumed Edgeworth had parked in the underground lot available to attorneys instead of the public parking garage out front.

Edgeworth nodded again before turning around and walking away. His quick footsteps seemed loud against the marble floor; by this point in the evening the building had mostly cleared and the low hum of voices no longer filled the lobby.

Phoenix watched him until he took a sharp left at the first hallway and disappeared out of sight before exiting out the front of the building. It was late enough in the evening that the heat of the summer day had mostly dissipated along with the setting sun, leaving a chill in the air. Phoenix settled against one of the thick, Corinthian columns that held up the overhanging eaves of the courthouse and waited.

As he leaned and watched, people came trickling out of the courthouse. At first it was mostly men and women in neutral, dark suits, badges proudly affixed to their left lapel, but as time passed they were mixed in with more ostentatious people in brighter colors or stranger clothing.

A girl that looked about sixteen bounced by, dressed in a navy blue jumper dress and white blouse, hair done up in a French braid. He was sure she was someone's daughter until he caught sight of the telltale badge glinting in the failing light. He shook his head. _…must be from Europe._

"…no, looks like the trial is going to run later. I'm on, uh, recess…" a man in a teal suit said loudly into a cell phone. He waved to a woman waiting down near the end of the sidewalk, "I've got to go, they're letting people back in."

Phoenix checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. He turned his focus back on the people walking by.

One vaguely familiar blonde woman, wearing a slinky, form-fitting red dress and elbow-length silk gloves, looked like she had gotten lost on her way to some Hollywood party—back in the 1940s. _Prosecutor_, Phoenix wordlessly labeled as she stomped past him and down the wide courthouse steps, shoving aside anyone unlucky enough to get in her way. Whichever she was, it didn't look as though her case had gone very well.

A flash of black caught his peripheral vision; he heard someone complain on the other side of the pillar, "…I can't believe that idiot scheduled practice after my testimony. _Some of us_ work full days and need to sleep…"

But red dresses, teal suits, slashes of black, and braids alike, none of them were wearing a maroon suit and ruffles against their neck. He felt nailed to the spot, watching as the courthouse slowly emptied and its occupants moved on to their people to see and places to go. Phoenix found his head turning towards the exit every time the doors swished open—still no sign of Edgeworth.

Phoenix glanced at his watch again. _What's taking him so long?_ He tried to drum up some good, self-righteous indignation over being made to wait for more than half an hour, but the heavy, sick feeling in his stomach was too distracting. It was hard not to feel conspicuous and vulnerable as everyone walked past.

Just as he was about to go in and look for the other man—or verify that his car was gone—Edgeworth appeared out the front doors, scanning the area. Relief washed through Phoenix, quieting the knots twisting in his stomach. When their eyes met, Edgeworth raised his hand in an awkward half-wave and walked over to where Phoenix stood.

"Sorry," he said before Phoenix could open his mouth. The prosecutor's brows were knit in frustration, but Phoenix didn't think it was directed at him. "Are you ready?"

Phoenix nodded and fell into pace beside him.

"So, which way?" Phoenix asked as they walked down the steps together, feeling not only relieved, but also unaccountably lighter at Edgeworth's reappearance.

Edgeworth slowly surveyed the options in both directions. "Should I flip a coin?"

_Don't get too enthusiastic, Edgeworth. I might think you actually want to be here._ Despite the sarcasm, the grin on Phoenix's face never wavered. No matter how dour Edgeworth's attitude, Phoenix was vaguely surprised to find he was genuinely looking forward to the evening more than he had anything in a long time.

* * *

The first set of blocks that stretched east from the courthouse were acutely familiar to Phoenix; Maya had dragged him in this direction fairly frequently in the immediate aftermath of a trial, as that happened to be the general locale of her favorite burger joint. He'd long lost count of how much money he had spent appeasing his assistant's apparently bottomless stomach; for a moment he almost dared to hope that this excursion would prove a little easier on his wallet. Then he remembered who he was actually with, and the brief flicker turned to ash as soon as it had sparked. 

Beyond the scope of Joe's, however, was mostly uncharted territory. While sitting in a booth with Maya, and occasionally Pearl, Phoenix remembered that a few of the places he could see in the distance from the window seemed fairly ritzy—he supposed that what had compelled him to choose this direction to take Edgeworth, who had been mostly silent since they had begun to walk.

Truth be told, it was a strange feeling. He couldn't recall a time when he and Edgeworth had moved calmly, side by side, not facing each other from opposite ends of a courtroom or rushing across gravel to break into a celebrity's house and rescue hostages. Edgeworth's stride was as brisk as when he walked out of court, and Phoenix had to step up his own pace to keep up.

"Have you been in this area?" he asked.

"Once or twice," Edgeworth said.

_Try being a little more succinct, Edgeworth. It could do you some good._

Still, he pressed on. "Anything down here?"

"A few places."

_You could work on being less specific, too._

Still, with that in mind, he let Edgeworth take the lead, content—he supposed—to follow beyond his footsteps and eyes trained on the back of his head. The silence had once again taken its rein, despite his best efforts.

His eyes scanned the line of restaurant names and establishments that they passed; most of them were places he himself would have been more than happy to stop in for a quick soup and sandwich, but judging from the way Edgeworth's footsteps didn't even slow as they passed, they didn't register so much as options in the prosecutor's mind.

Phoenix stopped—one particular building had caught his eye. Edgeworth made it a few more paces forward before realizing that his shadow had abruptly disappeared; he glanced backwards and then turned around to join Phoenix.

The rich, dark color alone stood out from the other buildings, with the bright décor and neon signs apt for casual diners—the way it loomed, the balcony protruding outwards from the second floor, the carved wood highlighted against the dim light of the streetlamps a few yards out, brought to Phoenix's mind the image of rich wine and—dare he say it—maybe even wealthy prosecutors in cravats. But more than any of that, the thing that had caught Phoenix's attention was how familiar it seemed.

It puzzled him—then it clicked. The polished wood carving and the feel of something ancient and unmovable reminded him of the old library from Ivy University, where he had spent countless days and nights poring over legal books, amongst a few other things.

"Hey, Edgeworth. Do you know this place?"

"No," Edgeworth said. "I don't remember this being here last time I was in the area."

_It really has been years, huh._ Funny how it had slipped his mind so easily.

Phoenix leaned forward slightly, squinting at the sign outside the door. To his surprise, the specials listed to draw in potential customers were actually affordable, even if he could barely pronounce them. He tried to sound out the unfamiliar name. "Freunden Fressen. That's..."

"It's German, Wright," Edgeworth murmured. His voice was surprisingly free of disdain.

_I guess you'd know, wouldn't you?_ Personally, Phoenix still couldn't hear the word 'Germany' without forcing down the instinct to duck and cover for any potential whip attacks.

They lingered outside. Phoenix stuffed his hands into his pockets and glanced at Edgeworth; he wasn't sure he wanted to be the one who suggested the place outright. But Edgeworth met his eyes; one of his eyebrows flicked upwards in an expectant sort of _well?_

Phoenix shrugged, and pushed the doors open. It seemed to be as firm a consensus as they were likely to come to.

It was like stepping into a cave paneled entirely in dark wood. Age and quiet care gave it a warm sheen in the low light; this was clearly a place well traveled over the years. Directly in front, there was a staircase leading up into what Phoenix assumed was the main seating area of the restaurant. Over to the right, Phoenix noticed a bar with a few patrons silently nursing their drinks.

"Do you have a reservation?" someone said, traces of a German accent clear in his intonation. Phoenix started; in the dimness he hadn't noticed the headwaiter there over by the stairs.

Before Phoenix could speak, Edgeworth replied, "No, we don't, but we're hoping you still have seating available."

The man made a slight production out of pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up and checking the bound book in front of him, before looking back to the two men and saying, "It seems there was a cancellation earlier this evening. There's a booth open. It's close to the kitchen, though."

"That's fine," Phoenix said quickly. At this point he didn't care if they had to eat _in_ the kitchen; he was hungry.

The headwaiter led them up the stairs, which creaked and moaned under their feet in a way that brought to mind old, turn-of-the-century houses. They made their way past several occupied booths and tables. Perhaps it was because of the atmosphere—maybe all that wood soaked up sound like a sponge did water—but even the boisterous laughter at one of the large tables tucked into a corner near the head of the stairs seemed muted, as though from very far away.

When they reached their booth, Edgeworth slid in first, then Phoenix on the opposite side. Both took the proffered menus and spent the next several minutes silently studying their options. Phoenix was inwardly relieved to note the regular entrées, while not as cheap as a night at "Joe's Burger Shack" by far, were still reasonably priced, even if he couldn't pronounce any of their names. At least the descriptions were bilingual, so he didn't have to play Russian roulette with his food.

Well, if he could find something that looked good. The menu was cramped and, for some reason, he was having trouble focusing, everything seemed to blur together in endless strings of nonsense consonants and vowels.

"If you're having trouble deciding, I would recommend the Schweinsbraten."

Phoenix looked up. _That's right, he'd familiar with the food too._ But Edgeworth was staring at his own menu like he'd never spoken in the first place.

"Thanks," Phoenix finally said. Edgeworth gave no indication he'd heard the reply, so Phoenix bent his head to locate the dish the prosecutor had mentioned.

There it was, in the corner. He would have missed it entirely if it hadn't been pointed out to him. Even in print, the name didn't ring any bells. Apparently it was roasted pork of some kind.

Eventually Phoenix's eyes got tired of pretending to navigate the endless umlauts of the German names. He'd long since decided on the entrée Edgeworth recommended anyway. He put his menu down and focused his attention on the man across from him.

The shadows from the dim light were long against Edgeworth's face as he continued to study his own menu like it was a vital piece of court evidence. In fact, Phoenix noticed, he was even _holding_ it the same way.

_Of all the habits to carry over_… Phoenix swallowed a chuckle, but apparently something in his expression showed, because Edgeworth suddenly glanced up. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if daring Phoenix to laugh. _Oh honestly, why is _he_ so on edge tonight?_

Edgeworth sighed, folded his menu, and put it on the table, as though to say 'you win, Wright'. What Phoenix won, he wasn't really sure—by no stretch of the imagination was trying to make small talk with Miles Edgeworth some sort of fabulous prize. He struggled to think of something to discuss; talking to his friend could be like navigating an emotional minefield.

Finally he decided on something (hopefully) neutral: the case Edgeworth had just finished.

"So, the trial…" Phoenix said, voice sounding unnaturally loud and stiff to his own ears. "I'm still not sure how Black's brother played into it. I know he threw in reasonable doubt, but…"

Edgeworth paused. Phoenix could practically see the mental drawbridge being raised, before the prosecutor seemingly remembered Phoenix hadn't been his opponent, and even if he had, the trial was over.

"The first day we focused mostly on the blood work, " Edgeworth finally began. "Things were going well, all of the contradictions pointed out were minor and easily explained." His expression grew sour as he drummed his fingers against the table. "Then Black told us he had a twin brother with a criminal record, _and_ he lived in the same building."

Phoenix's eyebrows raised. "How did you miss _that_?"

"You'd have to ask Detective Gumshoe that question," Edgeworth replied, gaze growing distant, as though calculating the exact amount an error of that magnitude should cost the detective, in more ways than one.

_Urk. Sorry, Detective, _Phoenix inwardly apologized. _Let's try to get off this subject_.

"So, it was more like blind luck on that defense attorney's part," Phoenix said.

"Oh, Simon Seize?" Edgeworth's bitter grin curdled even further. "Yes, I was…congratulated by several of my fellow prosecutors for scoring the 'easy win' this time."

_I'm not sure an office that employs Prosecutor Payne has bragging rights in that regard_, Phoenix thought. "He's known for that sort of thing?" Phoenix was hardly surprised, judging by what he'd seen in court, but he thought it better for Edgeworth to focus on the defense's failings than Gumshoe's.

"Yes." Edgeworth nodded. "Supposedly he _was_ promising at one point, and then he blew a huge case about a year ago. He hasn't won a case or even lasted more than a day in trial since then."

_Why do people keep on hiring him?_ Phoenix shook his head. _And then he breaks his 'one day' streak with Edgeworth. I can't imagine that went over well at the Prosecutors Office_.

"It wasn't that bad." Edgeworth's expression didn't change. "Not as bad as the reaction to my first loss."

Phoenix desperately wondered what was taking their waiter so long.

* * *

_Where were you ten minutes ago?_ Phoenix couldn't help but ask as the waiter made his way across the floor in their direction—clearly they didn't train their wait staff in the "law of good timing" here. At least he looked suitably apologetic. 

"My treat," Phoenix said, before the waiter got there. He wasn't sure if his client would prove to be a deadbeat or not, but he was the one that had invited Edgeworth out in the first place, and it was supposed to be a celebration—which seemed to mean plundering his wallet was expected.

Edgeworth's stare was unreadable.

Their waiter finally made it over to the end of the table; he opened his mouth—no doubt to recite the specials—but Edgeworth cut him off. "Separate checks, please."

_Is he doing this on _purpose? Phoenix shifted irritably, but held his tongue. He wasn't about to say no to a night out where he didn't have to pay for anyone aside from himself for a change.

The waiter blinked, ducking and scratching the back of his head as the awkward silence hovering around the booth claimed another victim. "That's fine," he ventured, looking to Phoenix.

"I'll have the…" Phoenix trailed off. "This one." He pointed to his menu.

Edgeworth had no difficulty giving the name of his entrée.

_Showoff_.

"Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?" The waiter seemed to have regained some of his composure now that things were going smoothly.

Edgeworth reached for the wine list. Upon reading, his eyebrow quirked in a familiar, small show of appreciation. "If you can guarantee it's from a fresh bottle, I'll take a glass of the Vin-Soulier," he said.

Phoenix reached for the list when he was done. His eyebrows raised for an entirely different reason; somehow the thought of paying more than half his entrée price for a single glass of wine didn't appeal. "I'll…just have water."

Edgeworth glanced at him briefly. "Another glass of the same, please."

Phoenix blinked, but before he could say anything, the waiter had already nodded and bid a hasty retreat.

"I don't really know much about wine," Phoenix admitted, not wanting to fall back into the pit of quiet suppression. "But I guess that's pretty good?" _If we're going by price, it must be the equivalent of fillet mignon._

"I'm more familiar with French vintages than the more local ones," Edgeworth said easily. "But wine from the same vineyard is what we usually have at our district office parties. It's very good."

_My tax dollars at work,_ Phoenix thought. "How has it been, coming back?" he asked.

"It's about what I expected," Edgeworth said.

_That's nice and vague_. Phoenix didn't dare give voice to what he really wanted to ask—_why_ Edgeworth had come back. With the conversation going this smoothly—relatively speaking—the last thing Phoenix wanted to do was bring it to a screeching halt again. "No problems, then? That's good."

"Those that liked me still do, those that don't…well, their opinion hasn't changed either." The expression on Edgeworth's face seemed to flicker briefly; it could have been the lighting. "It's almost like I never left."

"I've heard…" Phoenix hesitated for a moment.

Edgeworth seemed to understand what he was about to say. The corner of his mouth curled in a short, mirthless grin. "The office has been having difficulties?" He paused, and suddenly something seemed to collapse within his frame. The circles under his eyes Phoenix had noticed earlier now seemed not just from lack of one night's sleep but from countless late nights. "It's a mess."

Phoenix didn't know how to respond, so he was silent.

Edgeworth continued, quietly, almost like he was talking to himself, "If I hadn't been warned…" Then, louder: "It's been hard keeping prosecutors. You've probably lost count of the scandals making the news. And the higher-ups would rather use propaganda to sway public opinion instead of getting to the root of the problem." The disgust practically dripped from his words, and Phoenix had to suppress another small smile, knowing he would take it the wrong way. Edgeworth used to get that same—Larry had called it "preachy"—edge to his tone all the time when they were children.

_Propaganda, huh?_ Phoenix wasn't sure what he was talking about specifically, but the idea itself wasn't shocking. _In other words, typical politicians._

Phoenix was just about to ask another question when Edgeworth quickly, and clumsily, changed the subject, obviously not wanting to continue on this line of discussion. "What's been going on with you, Wright?"

"Uh, the usual…I guess," Phoenix said. "There was that big case about six months ago." It had been before Edgeworth came back. Phoenix was just thankful that it hadn't, for once, landed one of the Feys in mortal peril.

Edgeworth tilted his head and smirked. In a way, it was almost a relief to see. Anything was better than the weary man sitting in front of him a few moments earlier. "Yes, I remember reading about that one. It managed to make the papers over there—people were asking me about you. You're becoming infamous even overseas."

_He could have left it at "famous"…_

Phoenix had never even been out of the state; it was strange to think of people over in Europe talking about him with Edgeworth. It was even stranger to envision Edgeworth conversing with people—his coworkers. Edgeworth didn't have much good to say about the people he worked with here; Phoenix wondered if it was different when he was overseas. Had Edgeworth been more social; did he have regular dinner dates, meet people for drinks? Did he have office friendships, smile when he talked to people instead of furrowing his brows in irritation?

It was hard to imagine. Edgeworth in any language was still Edgeworth, Phoenix decided. If things had been so much better over there, then he wouldn't be frowning across from Phoenix right now.

As long as the topic had been broached, there _was_ one person Edgeworth had probably been in regular contact with that they both knew. "Speaking of Europe, how's—" Phoenix stopped, trying to think how he should address her. Simple was probably best, he decided. It wasn't like she was here to whip him for his disrespect. "—Franziska doing?"

"As far as I know, she's doing well," Edgeworth said.

"As far as you know?" Phoenix parroted, frowning slightly.

"I haven't seen her since I last faced her in court."

_But that was a year and a half ago!_ Phoenix blinked. First the year in between the Engarde trial and Iris's trial, and now nearly another two years without face to face contact. He understood it was difficult to keep in touch when you lived halfway across the world, but when they were in the same general area?

But then Edgeworth's expression softened slightly. Phoenix stared, not sure he had ever seen a look of such unguarded affection on the prosecutor's face before. "She calls me whenever she wins," Edgeworth said. "Which is quite often."

"She's on another winning streak?" Phoenix asked.

"That I don't know," Edgeworth admitted, a faint hint of a wry grin tugging the corners of his mouth. "She doesn't call when she loses."

_That sounds like her all right_. It was almost sweet, until he remembered that perverse von Karma pride had been responsible for whipping him unconscious at one point. Phoenix pitied the defense attorneys that had to face her after a loss.

"You two are considered quite the rivals over there," Edgeworth said.

"What?" Phoenix boggled. He knew the coverage of his cases had been wider the second year he'd been in practice, but that was just _strange_. _What exactly did those newspapers report?_

"One young woman I worked with was desperate to know when you two were going to have a rematch."

'_Rematch'? They're trials, not tennis matches._ Before Phoenix could respond, their waiter arrived with a small loaf of bread—warm, no doubt—cutting board, plates, and two glasses of water in tow. He set the spread down, glancing at their faces as he did. What he saw seemed to relieve him, because he lost some of his stiffness and ventured, "I forgot to ask, did you want your wine with the meal or right now?"

Edgeworth's eyes had narrowed slightly at the waiter's stare—Phoenix was lost as to what could possibly be annoying him this time, but with Edgeworth it didn't take much—before he shook himself out of whatever was occupying his thoughts and said, "Now is fine."

He looked to Phoenix for additional confirmation. Phoenix nodded, inwardly shrugging. _Might as well leave it to the expert._

As their waiter went to get their wine, Edgeworth took the knife and sliced himself the heel of the bread. He buttered it in a quick, easy motion, then took a bite. "Nm," he considered, swallowing. "It's not bad." High praise, coming from Edgeworth.

Phoenix reached for the knife himself. With some small difficulty he managed to hack off a small slice—doing it without grasping the rest of the loaf was harder than Edgeworth made it look—and put it in his mouth.

He almost spit it back out.

Phoenix supposed sourdough bread was lost on him. If given a choice for bread with his meal, it was right down there near the bottom, alongside hardtack. As far back as he could remember he'd disliked that sour flavor and the aftertaste it left on his tongue. He took a large gulp of water, resisting the urge to swish it around in his mouth like mouthwash to get rid of the remaining traces.

But as he watched Edgeworth reach for the loaf again, knife in hand, some perverse impulse caused him to pop the rest of the piece in his mouth and chew. Edgeworth looked at him, seemingly amused.

"I see you haven't changed," Edgeworth said, pausing in buttering another slice.

Phoenix swallowed. _Come to think of it, wasn't the first time I ever had sourdough bread at his house?_

* * *

Phoenix couldn't remember how the Edgeworth home had looked, overall. His dim memories were of a two-story house and long hallways with wood flooring; a large, open kitchen; and a vague feeling of being impressed. It was the first time he'd ever been invited to spend the night at Edgeworth's house. Larry was supposed to have been there too, but he hadn't been able to make it—probably grounded. 

They had been up in Miles's room, playing. It was getting late when Miles suddenly turned to him and asked, "Are you getting hungry?"

"Yeah, kinda," Phoenix admitted. Truthfully, his family usually ate dinner a couple of hours previous, but he hadn't wanted to say anything.

"All right, I'll go get my dad," Miles said.

"No, that's okay! I'm not _that_ hungry!" Phoenix protested, remembering how serious Miles had been when he'd greeted Phoenix at the door and told him that his father was working so they'd both have to be quiet. He'd somehow gotten the idea that interrupting Gregory Edgeworth was like asking a superhero to stop saving that woman in the burning building and order him a pizza instead.

But Miles shook his head. "If I don't remind him, he'll probably forget."

_Forget what? To _eat? Phoenix thought.

Miles stopped at the door and admitted, "I'm hungry too."

Phoenix watched from the safety of Miles's doorway as his friend padded down the hallway and rapped sharply on the door to his father's study. A few moments later, the door cracked open and out stepped Gregory Edgeworth.

He looked almost disappointingly ordinary to Phoenix, who had been expecting someone akin to Superman in a business suit. He wasn't even _wearing_ a suit. Instead, he had on a pair of dark slacks and a white dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows; he pushed one up in a distracted motion as he regarded his son.

Then he smiled. "Sorry, I must have lost track of the time."

Miles nodded sagely. "That's what I thought," he said. "Are you sure you don't want to just order something?"

"No, no," Mr. Edgeworth said. "I've been looking forward to this all day." He turned towards Phoenix. "You must be Phoenix. I've heard a lot about you from Miles."

Phoenix walked forward. As he approached, Mr. Edgeworth held out his hand; Phoenix tentatively offered his own and Mr. Edgeworth took it firmly, like he was meeting someone _important_, instead of his son's nine-year-old friend.

About that time, Phoenix decided Miles's dad was pretty cool, even if he didn't look like Superman.

"All right, let's go make some spaghetti," Mr. Edgeworth said.

Phoenix followed the two of them downstairs and into the immaculate kitchen. Upon entering, Mr. Edgeworth instantly took charge. Rolling his sleeves up even further, he told Miles, "I need you to get me the ground beef and eggs out of the refrigerator."

Miles walked to the large, stainless steel monstrosity and tugged the door open. Standing on tiptoes, his fingers caught the edge of the package on the back of the top shelf and he pulled it out. In the meantime, Mr. Edgeworth had retrieved a stack of mixing bowls of varying sizes from the high cabinets running above the countertops.

Phoenix shifted from foot to foot, unsure of whether he should be helping or if he'd just be getting in the way. As if reading his thoughts, Mr. Edgeworth suddenly smiled and said, "Why don't you help Miles get the spices we need, Phoenix?"

He then recited a list; it might as well have been in Greek to Phoenix, but Miles nodded and motioned him over to the walk-in pantry, where he pulled himself up onto the shelves—Phoenix couldn't help but think his mom would have a field day with that. Bracing himself with one foot against a large bag of flour, Miles began searching through and handing down a variety of small glass bottles. Phoenix eventually gave up trying to hold them and used his shirt as a makeshift basket.

"Take those over to my dad," Miles said, as he jumped down and bent over to retrieve a heavy, long, stainless steel pot.

When Phoenix made it back to Mr. Edgeworth, he said, "Thank you. Why don't you wash your hands, and then help me roll the meatballs?"

Phoenix washed and dried his hands—too slowly for Miles, it seemed, who was waiting with the pot in tow and making impatient noises in the back of his throat. After Phoenix was done, Miles hefted the pot into the sink and turned on the faucet. Phoenix took a place to the right of Mr. Edgeworth, and, a short time later, Miles took a spot to Phoenix's right.

They rolled in silence for a few minutes, Phoenix only stopped when the raw meat grew too cold for his fingers and he had to flex them to make the feeling return. Then, Miles took a glance at Phoenix's pile.

"You're doing it wrong," he said, sounding almost personally affronted by Phoenix's inability to adhere to the proper standards of meatball rolling. At Phoenix's questioning look, Miles continued, "They have to be the same size, otherwise they won't cook evenly. That one—" he pointed to one of Phoenix's meatballs, "—and that one—" he pointed to the one beside it, "—are completely different sizes."

"Really?" Phoenix asked. They didn't look that different to him.

There was a noise that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter to Phoenix's left. Mr. Edgeworth leaned down close to Phoenix and whispered, "He used to have the same problem."

That prompted a sour look from Miles, who didn't seem too thrilled at his authority being undermined—Mr. Edgeworth really did chuckle at that—but he didn't say anything to his father. Instead, he turned back to Phoenix. "Here, let me show you how to do it."

Eventually, Mr. Edgeworth left them to it and began puttering around in the background. The sound of pots sliding on to burners and things being opened and shut filled the air. Once they were done rolling, Mr. Edgeworth rescued their piles of meatballs, popped them in a skillet and the aroma of frying meat and bubbling sauce was added to the overall mixture of sight and sound.

"It'll be ready soon," Mr. Edgeworth told them, apparently amused at the pair of eager eyes perched over his shoulder, watching their combined efforts come to fruition.

When the timer went off for the spaghetti noodles, Miles motioned Phoenix over to a drawer and handed him three sets of silverware before retrieving the pasta bowls and water glasses stacked on the counter. He gathered all six of the items up, bringing them over to the kitchen table. Phoenix followed in his wake, glancing nervously at the way the glassware trembled with each step Miles took.

Once there, Phoenix got a lesson in table-setting etiquette as Miles corrected nearly everything he set.

"The fork goes on the other side," he said easily, squinting at a glass. "Dad, this one has spots, can you get me down another one?"

Phoenix's family went by the 'as long as we have utensils to eat, who cares' rule, but it was impossible to get too annoyed with Miles. It was like getting mad at a cat for being a cat.

"All right, boys, it's done," Mr. Edgeworth pronounced. "Bring your bowls over and I'll start serving."

By this point, if Phoenix thought he'd been hungry before, the time it took to prepare the food—not to mention the smell of it as it cooked—had left him starving. He heaped his plate generously, and saw Miles doing the same. They sat down at the same side of the table, across from Mr. Edgeworth, who passed out a small, individual sized loaves of warm bread before settling down himself.

He resisted the urge to forego the neatness and just bite into it, and carefully picked up his knife to try to imitate simulate Mr. Edgeworth's good manners. Not a small bit of effort—and several crumbs scattered his plate and tablemat—later, he eagerly bit into a slice—and nearly choked.

It was bitter and _curdling—_he didn't even know he knew that word—in his mouth.

_Maybe it's gone bad?_

He glanced quickly around the table. Neither of the Edgeworths seemed to be sharing his distress; Mr. Edgeworth, in fact, was buttering his third helping by now.

He poked through the center of his slice in what he hoped was discreetly—but peering closely, he couldn't see any green flecks or other signs of mold.

When he looked back up, father and son alike had their full attention on him. Mr. Edgeworth's fork, loaded with spaghetti, was halfway to his mouth.

"S-sorry," he stammered out, dropping the damaged slice of bread as though he had been caught red-handed at a crime scene.

"It's sourdough," Miles said. "You've never had sourdough before?"

"Sour?" Phoenix blurted out. "Why would anyone want their bread to be _sour?_"

Mr. Edgeworth paused, with a pensive frown on his face. "Miles, could you get the other loaf from the cupboard, please?"

"All right." There was a screeching sound against the tiled floor as Miles pushed his chair back to get up.

"It's okay," Phoenix said quickly, feeling his face grow hot. "It's not that bad. I mean... it's good!"

"It's a defense attorney's job to pick out the lies from a witness," Miles said, pointing his fork in Phoenix's direction. "And," he added, as an afterthought, "You're a terrible liar."

"H-hey," Phoenix protested, weakly.

"That's a good thing," Mr. Edgeworth said. But at least, to Phoenix's relief, he was smiling again.

* * *

"I remember," Phoenix said. 

"It's hard enough to forget the scowl on your face as you tried it," Edgeworth noted. "I suppose it would be worse for the one doing the scowling."

"I had a good time, though," Phoenix said. "Even washing the dishes. Your dad was really ni..."

It was like a door slamming in his face. Edgeworth's jaw set and he glared down at the remnants of his bread as though they had suddenly committed a personal affront to him by triggering an unwelcome mention of his father's memory. "…you really haven't changed," he murmured, nearly too low for Phoenix to hear.

_He still hates talking about how it was back then._

An odd, icy lump formed in the back of Phoenix's throat—he wasn't sure whether he should apologize or simply change the subject, when the dark shape of the waiter swept in beside him once again, carrying two platters of food.

"Schweinsbraten?"

"Uh, here," Phoenix said. _I _think_ that was what I ordered…_

"Very good, sir," the waiter said, and set it before him. He began to say the name of Edgeworth's dish, but Edgeworth cut him off with a wordless raise of his hand. A storm cloud might as well have gathered above his head, for all the pleasantness of his expression. The waiter served him his food, clearly perturbed, and quickly removed himself from the scene, leaving them to themselves once again.

The prosecutor immediately busied himself in attending to his food—Phoenix didn't even have a chance to get out his intended _looks good, doesn't it?—_which was apparently too whole and bulky for his tastes. The cutting knife sawed mechanically into the red meat. His mouth was still drawn into a closed line.

Phoenix opened his mouth to speak, not sure of what he could say, but not wanting to leave things like this either.

"How has Maya been?" Edgeworth asked, abruptly. Phoenix lifted his head, but Edgeworth's eyes were locked on his food; he could barely make out the shape of his mouth moving along with his words. "After the incident at Hazakura...?"

"She's been good," Phoenix said. He was just glad that the silence had finally ended, and that he hadn't been the one who was forced to break it. "She was officially named Head of Kurain not long after you left again. She doesn't tell me that much about it, but it sounds like a lot of responsibility."

"I imagine it would be. She's been charged with overseeing an entire village."

_I hadn't really thought of it that way, but I guess it's true._ "She usually seems to be able to make time to manage the offices, though. But yeah, I don't know how she does it."

"She's always been strong," Edgeworth said. "If there's anyone I know that could handle it, it'd be her."

"Yeah…" If the Engarde trial hadn't proven her strength, the circumstances of Hazakura had. "But I guess things have been getting busier for her lately. She couldn't make it to this last trial."

"I see."

The defense attorney didn't have to be a psychic to hear the implied question in those two words. _I guess it has been a little bit lonely…_

Phoenix chewed quickly around a bite of meat; swallowing its mostly solid mass was slightly painful, but he was eager not to let the flow of conversation derail into awkward silence again. "Pearls has been doing really well, too. She sort of had a growth spurt the last year, you might not even recognize her..."

"Oh, yes." Edgeworth's brow furrowed and the hand maneuvering his knife paused as he visibly struggled to match the name to the memory of a face. "She was... Maya's cousin, wasn't she?"

"Yeah. Maya says she even goes up to Hazakura on her own now and then. To see her sister, I guess."

Phoenix had managed to swallow two more bites before he realized he was still waiting for a response that had yet to come. He glanced upwards; Edgeworth's eyes skirted briefly across his, and the prosecutor almost looked disoriented, as though he had been preoccupied with his own thoughts to the point of forgetting that he'd been in the midst of a conversation with another person.

"Edgew...?" he began, but Edgeworth had already collected himself and was speaking.

"What about you, Wright?" There was a certain heaviness to Edgeworth's words, like they were being forced out of his mouth against his own will.

"Huh? Have I been up to Hazakura?" Phoenix's strongest memories of the temple were of bitter, biting cold and a very long drop from that bridge. Even Maya's pouting hadn't convinced him to go back to try to _another_ full course training session yet, no matter how much she insisted he'd be the 'better lawyer' for it.

"Have you been in contact with Iris?" Edgeworth's gaze remained firmly anchored to his plate as he spoke.

Phoenix nearly dropped his silverware. His tongue felt like it had somehow tied itself into knots, thick and heavy. _Where did this come from all of a sudden?_

"Yes, we've…been in contact," he managed. His face felt hot. "Mostly through the phone, and letters. She likes those."

Edgeworth took a long sip of wine. A trick of the light made his hand almost appear to tremble, however, when he spoke, his voice was firmer than it had been all night. "So things are going well."

Phoenix thought of that low, soft voice, close in his ear when he called her sometimes after work. So similar to the one etched in his memories, but no longer tentative, heavy with the staggering weight of guilt and secrets. _And you're partially to thank for that, Edgeworth_.

"Yes," he was surprised to find his lips curving into a smile. "She's doing fine."

Edgeworth stared at Phoenix with an intensity usually reserved for his witnesses on the stand before abruptly turning back to his meal. He seemed to re-absorb himself completely in the process of cutting his meat into meticulous, bite-sized pieces.

"How's your food?" Phoenix half-blurted out. Something had shifted in the air; he suddenly felt strangely light-headed and was at a loss to explain why.

"Fine."

Phoenix hesitated. Edgeworth had moved onto the vegetables; the way he set about slicing them into perfect green and yellow squares almost depressed him. "You know," he said, feeling foolish but plunging on anyway, "I've... never had this kind of thing before."

"I imagine not." Phoenix waited for the dry remark about his lack of culinary knowledge outside the wonders of fast food, but it never came. The loudest noise Edgeworth seemed willing to make was the clattering of his silverware against his plate—in fact, it was so conspicuous that he wondered if he wasn't actually doing it on purpose.

Phoenix's gaze dropped back to his own plate. He was quickly running out of meaningless questions to ask, and it was becoming very apparent that Edgeworth didn't seem to be interested in playing along regardless. That awkward sense of treading on one another's toes was gone, and in its place, a feeling of distance. Watching Edgeworth calmly dissecting his food, even though he sat not two feet away, it seemed he might as well be sitting on the other side of the restaurant.

Phoenix preferred the awkwardness, honestly.

A loud giggle skittered across Phoenix's consciousness and he turned to stare at the table across the way, where a young woman in a low cut, black ensemble cozied up to an older man that was obviously her date—or her grandfather. _Has it always been this loud in here?_ he wondered. It didn't seem like it had, the couple hadn't been here much later than he and Edgeworth.

Their own quiet now seemed even further highlighted by the conversations seeping in around them.

"...so drunk last night, I had to _drag_ him back to the apartment..."

"...barely made it! If we'd have arrived two minutes later, the concert would have been sold out!..."

"He claimed he wanted to cut all ties, does it not matter how I feel; why I yearn, what I dream? Relationships…relationships…_dammit_. He claimed he wanted to cut…"

Phoenix glanced over his shoulder, trying to place the sound of the last voice. Its source seemed to be a frazzled-looking young man, ignoring his plate of cold-looking food in favor of a loose-bound book that Phoenix supposed was a script. _Must be an actor trying to cram his lines before the big showing, or something._

"Pity," Edgeworth murmured; Phoenix's head swiveled back to where his companion was sitting. "That sort of procrastination is a large part of what's been hampering production levels at the offices. I imagine even I know the lines from that scene better than he does."

"You like plays, Edgeworth?" Phoenix asked. _I don't remember him feeling strongly about them one way or the other when we were kids._

"I don't know I'd say that I _love_ them," Edgeworth said. "But I've seen my fair share. Manfred von Karma wasn't exactly an advocate of Saturday morning cartoons."

_Television, men's fashion beyond the 1800's, _due process of law…_von Karma didn't seem like much of a fan of anything aside from his perfect record._ The details of the case from—_has it really been four years?_--floated to the surface of his mind. _And his revenge._

"I'm surprised you knew that was a play, actually, Wright. It's fairly obscure. You don't exactly strike one as the type to be interested in that kind of thing."

"_The Empty Room, _right?" Phoenix asked. Edgeworth nodded. Phoenix continued. "Someone I knew back in college treated me to a showing."

"And you went?" Edgeworth quirked an eyebrow. "I always pictured you to be more the 'glued to the couch' type on your days off."

_Hey, I'm not _that_ bad!_ Phoenix inwardly protested. _At least I don't lounge around in pink bathrobes._

"Of course I did," Phoenix said. "He was the lead, and…it brought back good memories. He must have sent invitations out to half our old college troupe—it was almost like a class reunion."

"Class reunion? _You_ studied theatre?" Edgeworth looked genuinely surprised. "I wouldn't have expected that from you at all."

"Oh, yeah?" There was something satisfying about catching Edgeworth off guard, somehow, even outside of court. "That was my major, actually. I was hoping to be a theatre actor, maybe in Europe or something... far-fetched dream, huh?"

"If you had asked me which I thought were more far-fetched, you as a stage actor, or you as a defense attorney..." Edgeworth trailed off. He swallowed heavily, like something too big to say had gotten stuck in his throat, as it always did when this topic was broached.

It was back. Like being plunged into a pool of water, every individual molecule of air around them abruptly grew heavier, dampening all noise.

As he watched Edgeworth choking on whatever he wanted to verbalize—Phoenix was never quite sure if it was a thank you, an apology, condemnation, or something else entirely—he suddenly felt very tired.

This evening had been a textbook example of why he usually didn't make socialization overtures towards Edgeworth. When it was just the two of them, their combined history weighed like a noose against their necks, strangling any attempts to reconnect on a comfortable, easy level. Sometimes it seemed like the only thing they had in common at all was a shared childhood, and even that was a time Edgeworth appeared more than content to forget.

"Were you in any performances?"

Phoenix looked up, startled. Edgeworth's eyes pinned his, and, for once, Phoenix was the one that broke contact first. He was sure that hadn't been what Edgeworth was trying to say, but an odd flash of vulnerability had seemed to surface on his old friend's face, before it vanished in a blink.

_He's trying too,_ Phoenix realized.

"A…a couple. Just bit parts, though," he began. It became easier. "The director always said he didn't trust me with the leads, or any role that involved a lot of prop coordination, or... most anything that involved much other than standing there."

Edgeworth chuckled. Something around them seemed to break. To Phoenix's surprise, he felt his own laughter beginning to bubble in his chest.

"I didn't do so bad," Phoenix defended, but it was with a smile on his face. "I even have evidence."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he said. The jolt of the recollection hit him—he had actually forgotten about it up until now. "I still have an old copy of a tape someone took of one of the performances somewhere. You could check it out for yourself if wanted."

"If I wanted?" Edgeworth's eyebrow raised. "Borrow it, you mean."

"Sure," he said. "Why not?"

Edgeworth paused, then seemed to relax. The atmosphere settled down into that fragile air of familiarity.

"I see enough of you making a caricature out of yourself in court, Wright," he finally said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

_You could have just said 'no thanks',_ Phoenix thought, but his own smile had returned.

"I'm just glad Maya hasn't found it. She does enough without having to know what I look like in costume..."

Edgeworth nodded as Phoenix continued to speak, chin resting lightly against the knuckles of his right hand. His fork lay still and motionless against the side of his plate.

_This is how it should be._ The thought came unbidden to his mind, but the more it lingered, the more Phoenix was certain it wasn't unwelcome.

* * *

Phoenix set his utensils on his cleaned plate. The brief clang it made against the ceramic had a distinctly satisfying ring to it. 

"Are you finished?"

He nodded.

Edgeworth signaled the waiter for the checks. Edgeworth signed his without so much as a blink, but it was in Phoenix's habit to check just how much money he had managed to frivol away before signing anything.

_Not crippling._ He supposed, as he wrote out the check, he couldn't ask for much more.

Edgeworth retrieved his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, tucking it inside the little black folder. _That's…a lot more than twenty percent_, Phoenix noted, but then figured their poor waiter deserved it for putting up with the schizophrenic table for as long as he had.

They rose simultaneously from their seats.

* * *

The walk back was slower in pace, but seemed to go so much faster. 

The sun had already begun to set as they left, but now it was completely dark out. In the distance, office buildings were checkered with the occasional lit floor or office. Phoenix wondered, had he not invited Edgeworth out tonight, if the prosecutor's own twelfth story office would be one of them.

Edgeworth seemed content to match Phoenix's meandering walk. Alongside them, the occasional car's headlights made the streets and surrounding buildings melt into blurs of light. They passed a couple on the way, both talking furiously and walking at a steady clip—it was only in hindsight Phoenix realized they'd been holding hands. Other than that, there was no one going or coming their way. The only other sounds were the distant screeching of horns blocks away.

Phoenix glanced over at Edgeworth, opened his mouth, then shut it. For once the quiet was comfortable instead of thick. He saw no reason to break it.

Eventually, as the courthouse loomed ahead, it seemed less like a destination and more like an end of something Phoenix didn't want to finish, not quite yet.

Instead of walking around to the front, they bypassed the façade and took a left where the sidewalk branched to the entrance of the underground lot. The attendant—it was late, this was probably the final shift—stared at them dully before going back to slowly turning the pages of his magazine.

Phoenix's shifted from one foot to the other and stole a glance into the mouth of the lot.

"Can I walk you to your car?" Right after the words left his lips, Phoenix realized they sounded a little strange.

"This isn't a date, Wright," Edgeworth replied, almost before the words were out of Phoenix's mouth. It seemed that response had been harsher than Edgeworth intended, because it was punctuated by a frustrated sigh. He continued. "Thank you, I'll manage."

Then, to Phoenix's amazement, the corners of Edgeworth's mouth lifted in a brief, but sincere smile. "It was…fun," he admitted.

Phoenix was surprised that 'fun' was a good word to describe how he felt too. And he wanted to do it again, though with hopefully less overall discomfort and more actual conversation.

As Phoenix watched Edgeworth walk away, the chill night wind tugging at his cravat, he suddenly yelled to the retreating figure, "I'll call you!"

He didn't care how it sounded.

Edgeworth paused, like the words themselves had frozen him in his tracks. He glanced over his shoulder and gave a short wave, then kept on moving.

Phoenix smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

Struggling Against Gravity

Chapter Three

It was always harder to come into work directly after a case. It might have been because court was always such a tense, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants affair that his mind rebelled against even the possibility of doing it again so soon. Or perhaps it was a way of rewarding himself; since people rarely treated _him _to a celebration, he had to take what he could get.

Whatever the reason, Phoenix didn't make it to the office until the women from across the hallway were going on their lunch break together. Both of them glanced at him as he attempted to fit his uncooperative key in the lock, and hesitantly returned his friendly nod. Sometimes he wondered what the other inhabitants of the building thought of his practice, what with the Feys and their unusual outfits, and the odd hours he tended to keep when the two aforementioned girls weren't there.

When he managed to get the door open and stepped inside, the first thing he noticed the message light of the phone on the desk—once his, now Maya's— blinking rapidly in the darkness of the waiting room. That was getting to be a more and more common sight as the years went by; occasionally he'd have messages even when he made it a point to come in early.

Phoenix hit the button and allowed the recording to play as he walked across the room and turned on the lights. They flickered briefly, then bathed the office in that cold, artificial light commonly found in doctors' waiting rooms. Automatically, he went to the window and opened the blinds, tempering the glare with warm sunlight.

As he turned to open the door that lead to his office, a familiar voice filled the room. "…Nick, I know you're there! How could you, man, I thought we were buddies! Friends to the end! And here you are, in my hour of need…"

_It was one o'clock in the morning, Larry. Of course I wasn't here!_ As Phoenix set the files from yesterday's case on his desk, he wondered if was worth it to give Larry a call back, or to just assume that his latest crisis had worked itself out, as they tended to do—barring accusations of murder. He sat down and glanced at the paperwork in the corner, then pulled out his cell phone, debating.

Phoenix nearly jumped out of his skin when the phone came alive in his hand, Steel Samurai ringtone blaring from the tiny speaker. Without even glancing at the display, he answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hi Nick!" the familiar voice crackled over the line.

"Maya!" he exclaimed, unconsciously leaning forward against the desk. There was a hiss of static, and distant background laughter echoed thought the speaker. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the phone booth," she said.

_Oh, _that _narrows it down_. "You mean the one in Kurain?"

"Of course!" He could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "Where else would I be?"

"In your house?"_Please tell me you didn't forget you had the phone put in._

"Nah, that was too far—" _The bus stop is right across the street from Fey Manor; it's practically a thirty-second walk away!_ Phoenix mentally interrupted. "—so I decided to call out here."

The office phone began to ring. "Just a second, Maya," Phoenix said, picking it up and shoving it under the desk, then walking to the other side of the office so it wouldn't blare so loudly. "So, what's going on? That emergency…?"

For a second, Phoenix thought the call had been dropped. Then: "That? Oh, that was no trouble at all for me. It's all taken care of! I was calling up to check up on _you_, Nick."

"Me?" He settled into one of the chairs reserved for clients—the ones that were almost never used, since most of his clients had already been arrested by the time he took their cases—and heartily wished the answering machine would just pick up already.

"To see how the case went!" she said. "Must have been tough without me there to guide you along, huh?"

For once, nothing sarcastic came to mind. "Yeah," he admitted, smiling. "It was."

"I was afraid you'd lost and were crying yourself to sleep or had committed hara-kiri or something. I couldn't reach you at all on Thursday."

_Hey! Now that's taking it a little too far!_ "No, I won. I think the only reason it took as long as it did was the prosecutor kept on objecting to his own witnesses," he explained. "And I didn't find out my cell phone was dead until this morning. Sorry about that."

The office phone had finally clicked over into voice mail. Phoenix got up to get a cup of coffee from the office's tired, old coffee maker—the ins and outs of only Pearl was intimately acquainted with, though he could usually get it to spit out a pot or two if he was desperate. He held the phone awkwardly between shoulder and ear as he poured.

"I tried your apartment too, though," she said. "Did you forget to pay the phone bill? You should really be more responsible about these sorts of things, Nick."

_That sounds funny coming from _you "If I'd forgotten to pay the bill, you would have gotten a 'this number is no longer in service' message," he said. "Sorry I missed you on Thursday, it's because I didn't get home until late. I went out to dinner."

"Oooh, a hot dinner date, huh?" Maya said. "You better be careful, or I'll tell you-know-who!"

_And who would that be exactly?_ "You can tell whoever you want. It was with Edgeworth."

"What?! You had a hot dinner date with _Mr. Edgeworth_?!"

Phoenix began to splutter a reply, but the phone slipped from his precarious hold. When he grabbed at it, his other hand moved directly in the path of the coffee he was pouring. Luckily it was more lukewarm than anything else, but that still left him with a wet hand and coffee all over the counter. Sighing, he reached down for the phone and grumbled in irritation when it skittered from his grasp.

His fingers finally closed around the cell phone and he brought it back up to his ear. "Sometimes I really have no idea how your brain works," he said sourly, blotting up the mess on the counter with some napkins.

"Oh, come on, Nick! It was a joke!" she protested, not hiding the laughter behind her words very well. He imagined she had a good idea of what his reaction had looked like. "You really need to lighten up. If you don't stop all the doom and gloom, you'll get wrinkles. And then not even Mr. Edgeworth will go out to dinner with you!"

_Doesn't seem to do Edgeworth any harm_, Phoenix thought. The prosecutor's hair might be going slightly prematurely gray, and he had tired lines at the corners of his eyes if someone looked hard enough, but no one would ever mistake him for being older than he was.

"Do you have another case this soon?" Maya asked. "The two of you are finally facing against one another again?"

"Hmm? Oh—no, we're not. Not yet," Phoenix said.

"I thought…well, I suppose that makes sense. It wouldn't be much fun to go out with Mr. Edgeworth if you were going to have to face him in court the next day. Just think, every time you tried to talk—" Maya's voice dropped in pitch, and she began a passable impression. "_Wright, you know I'm the prosecutor on this case! We can't discuss that._"

_Sadly, she's probably right_. But there was something more pressing he wanted to talk about than their dinner. "Hey, Maya…when do you think…"

"I probably won't be able to make it back for a few more weeks," she said, intercepting his question. "There's some stuff that needs my attention."

_Hmm, sounds like that emergency is a little less resolved that she let on_, Phoenix thought.

"Do you—" A sudden crash filled his ears, so loud Phoenix half leapt out of his chair, and, for a moment, wondered if it was in the office and not on the other end.

"M-Maya! What happened?" The high-pitched sound of wailing filtered over the phone. It seemed too young to be hers, but that didn't do much to ease his fear.

"Hey, Nick, can you hear me?" She sounded distracted, but fine. Even amused.

"What just happened?" he demanded again.

"Oh—hold on just a sec." She said something indistinct to someone else before coming back on the line. "Don't worry. Claire's little sister just crashed into the telephone booth."

Phoenix wasn't sure he heard correctly. _Dare I even ask?_ "Crashed into the booth? How on earth—"

"It's easier than it sounds!" she said. "I used to do it all the time when I was little."

_No surprises there._His heart began to settle back into a normal rhythm.

"Two laps around Fey Manor," she continued, voice thick with memories. "To win you have to touch the phone booth."

_And that includes smashing into it? _ "I'll take your word for it," he said.

"I'll challenge you to a race next time you're up here!"

_No thanks. Not if it involves planting my face into something_.

"Sorry, Nick, I better get going. It looks like her nose is bleeding pretty badly, and she hasn't stopped crying. I'll call you soon."

"All right," he said. "I'll talk to you later." _Master of Kurain Channeling or Master of Babysitting_? he thought affectionately as he hung up the phone. The office seemed a little larger, slightly emptier, without her voice to fill it.

_Enough stalling_, he told himself as he fished the office phone out from underneath the desk and set it back into its proper spot. _I need to finish this paperwork anyway. The office bathroom needs a once over too_.

* * *

The noise from the television drifted across Phoenix's consciousness as he worked. When the girls were here, the office was usually filled with the sounds of Maya's cartoons, or—when Pearl managed to win at "rock, paper, scissors"—weepy violins from the forgotten black and white romance "classics" a local station liked to broadcast in the afternoon. But when Phoenix was alone, news was the default. 

"…the Prosecutor's Office…"

Phoenix turned his head. He glanced back down at the nearly finished paperwork as if in apology, then shifted his full attention to the events on the television for a few minutes.

It wasn't actually a story about the Prosecutor's Office; they had just been mentioned in conjunction with a high profile case. Phoenix's attention drifted once again. Unbidden, the memory of the circles under Edgeworth's eyes returned. _He could probably do with sleeping in like I did for a few days._

_I wonder how he's doing today_… Phoenix recalled Edgeworth's half-startled wave when Phoenix had called out to him at their parting last night. He contemplated the office phone, rolling the coiled cord between his fingers as he considered. _There's one way to find out, I suppose. It couldn't hurt.._.

His momentary action was stalled when he picked up the phone and realized he wasn't sure what number to dial. He called Edgeworth so infrequently, and when he did, it usually had been a message left on the prosecutor's answering machine in his apartment back in Europe.

Phoenix began paging through the old-fashioned roll of addresses and phone numbers on his desk—as many things in the office, it was a holdover from Mia. He seemed to remember putting at least one contact number for Edgeworth in at one point years ago, probably after the trial where he had defended him against von Karma.

_Edgeworth, Miles…just his work number, huh? _It was better than nothing. Thank goodness he hadn't destroyed it in a fit of pique, considering the events shortly afterwards. Not giving himself the time to talk himself out of it—_I said I'd call him—_Phoenix dialed the number. He swallowed to wet his throat as the phone trilled in his ear. Just in time; the ringing stopped suddenly as the call was picked up.

"Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth speaking." He sounded abrupt and slightly irritated.

_Maybe this is a bad time_, Phoenix thought. On the other hand, he'd be hard pressed to think of very many times that the prosecutor _didn't_ sound abrupt and slightly irritated. He briefly switched the phone to his other hand and wiped the damp palm against his pants distractedly. "Um, hey. It's me."

There was a short silence. "…Wright?"

_Who did he think it was?_ "Yeah," Phoenix said, walking forward until he was looking out the window.

"Is there something wrong?" Edgeworth asked, sounding only slightly less irked.

"Remember? I said I'd call you," Phoenix said, beginning to wonder why he'd ever thought this was a good idea.

"I'd assumed it wouldn't be during working hours," was Edgeworth tart reply.

"I don't have your cell number." Phoenix pinched the bridge of his nose. "Anyway…" He paused, searching for something to say. "How's your day going?" _Why am I doing this? Has too much time with Maya made me into some sort of masochist?_

"Busy," came the reply. Indeed, Phoenix could hear someone calling for Edgeworth in the background.

"I won't keep you," Phoenix began. His objective had been achieved; he'd called back like he said he would. Miles Edgeworth obviously hadn't died due to sleep deprivation. Still, he hesitated.

As he began mentally cycling through things to discuss_—"So, today is trash day, huh?"—_inspiration struck. "I was just wondering if you were free again this Thursday. I thought maybe we could go back to…that German place."

When there was no answer, Phoenix assumed they were going through another bout of painful lull in conversation as Edgeworth chewed it over, until he heard the sound of pages turning in the background.

"My trial is early that day," Edgeworth said cautiously, as though Phoenix was going to come to his senses and yank back the invitation at any second. All traces of irritation were gone. "I'm free."

"Good," Phoenix said, more decisively than he felt. "Then I'll see you outside the restaurant around the same time."

"I suppose I'll make the reservation," Edgeworth said after a second. "You can't even pronounce the name, even if you could remember it."

"Yeah, that'd be best." They said their goodbyes quickly and Phoenix ended the call, feeling like he'd just finished some sort of emotional decathlon.

It was ten minutes later, as he was scrubbing the toilet, before he realized he'd forgotten to actually ask for Edgeworth's cell phone number.

* * *

Phoenix leaned against the wall under an alcove at the train station. As the sea of people mixed and parted in front of him, he glanced over the worn posters across the way—several for a rock concert long over, a few here and there for upcoming TV shows, and one so old all he could make out were blurs of pink, blue, and gold. The newspaper he was carrying crinkled in his grip. He'd bought it on his way from the bus stop to the terminal to read while he waited, but he'd found himself unable to concentrate. 

Not even Edgeworth's face staring up at him from page three had managed to hold his interest—especially when, if he was desperate to learn the details of the prosecutor's latest and greatest, he could just pry them from the man himself tomorrow. Provided he didn't cancel again.

If it took a month to create a habit, then by all rights Phoenix should have gotten used to their regular Thursday dinners by this point. But whenever he called to confirm their dates, he still half expected Edgeworth to bow out. Until last time, he never had.

"_I don't think I'm going to be able to make it this Thursday, Wright."_ Edgeworth had sounded distracted.

"_Then,"_ Phoenix had found himself asking. "_How about Wednesday?"_

Edgeworth had paused. _"No, I don't think it's going to work this week_."

"_But we're still on for next week?"_

"_Yes, I'll make sure of it."_

"_If it's too much trouble—"_

"_It's fine."_

While conversation still had its strained moments, Phoenix was beginning to find the routine comforting. On Thursdays, he left the office early, caught the bus down to the courthouse, and walked the increasingly familiar couple of blocks down to the restaurant. He almost always got there before Edgeworth—living your life at the mercy of public transport tended to make you early. Waiting in front of the restaurant, he always felt a little jolt, like a burst of static electricity under his skin, when Edgeworth came into view, walking in Phoenix's direction from the parking lot down the street.

Phoenix blinked as he was wrenched from his thoughts by the train pulling into the station, line of windows blurring as it obscured the advertisements on the other side. A quick glance at his watch told him this should be Maya's train, so he watched carefully as the doors open and the passengers spilled out.

As usual, Phoenix caught sight of Maya before she did him—her robes always made her stand out in a crowd. Within a few seconds she was engulfed by people trying to board—at times, visible only by her bun bobbing like a cork in water as she darted glances to and fro. Phoenix cupped his hand to his mouth to call out to her, but at that precise moment, her eyes met his and her face lit up with one of those patented Maya grins.

Maya began waving, nearly smacking an older man in the back with the force of her exuberance. Phoenix raised his hand to show he'd caught sight of her and moved to meet her as she struggled past a young family and their luggage. When they met, he found himself pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

"Wow, it's been forever! Five months really is a long time…" she said as she pulled away.

"Five _weeks_," Phoenix corrected. She held out her duffle bag, and he took it automatically. It was heavier than a few sets of clothes would allow. _What does she have in here, rocks?_

"Pfft," she scoffed as they made their way inside and towards the double exit doors on the other side of the station lobby. "Five months, five weeks, what's the difference?"

_More than a hundred days, for starters._

"Either way, I think I'm long overdue for a vacation!" She blinked rapidly as they walked out and into direct sunlight, throwing her hand up as a temporary shield.

_Yeah, don't we all wish we could take a vacation every month. _"Does office work really count as a vacation?"

"What? That stuff _still_ isn't done?" She turned to face him, disappointment written clear on her face. "I thought we could pick up a case or two while I'm here!"

_She makes it sound like buying a couple of loaves of bread at the store_, Phoenix thought. "The person that was here when the paperwork was made should be here when it's filed. That's one of my rules."

Maya paused. When Phoenix turned to her, questioning, she suddenly grinned so widely her eyes closed under the pressure. "You're a hundred years too early to say anything that cool, Nick!" she exclaimed. "Besides, not being able to get anything done without me around isn't something to brag about!"

_I _could have_ done it. I just didn't,_ Phoenix inwardly protested.

The nearest bus stop to the train station was a few blocks away. As they walked, the mid-afternoon sun high in the sky eventually beat Maya's buoyant pace into something more sedate.

Normally Maya would be bothering him to stop in one of the restaurants sunken in amidst the laundromats and thrift stores that dotted both sides of the streets, even at risk of missing their bus_—"I can't work on an empty stomach, Nick! It's like expecting a car to run without gas."—_but today she seemed content to go straight to the office. _Maybe she had something on the train_…

Maya made a move to roll up her sleeves, then seemed to think better of it and pulled them down again. She fiddled with the edge of her right sleeve as they walked, fingers running back and forth along the hem. Upon closer inspection, Phoenix realized that these weren't the usual spirit medium acolyte's robes. The skirt was longer, more like a dress, and the sleeves were different, heavier. Phoenix wasn't an expert on the fashion styles of Kurain, but that outfit looked even warmer than his suit.

"Those robes seem a bit bulky for this weather. You must be fried," he said.

"Oh!" She dropped the fabric like it had suddenly grown blisteringly hot and laughed nervously. "You noticed, huh?"

"It's kind of hard not to…"

"To be honest, I wanted to wear my old training robes, but they aren't really befitting of my status as Master, I guess." Maya clasped her hands behind her back.

"You guess?" Phoenix looked ahead. The bus stop was in sight.

"You know what I mean. 'For the good of the village, there's a certain image you have to maintain!' That sort of thing. Kind of like you having to wear your badge, right?" She turned to him, smiling once more.

_Well, my badge doesn't look like it weighs ten pounds, but…_ "I suppose I understand. I don't think most people know what your robes symbolize, though."

"Not a lot of people know what your badge means either, but you still wear it!" she teased.

_Touché. I can't really argue with that._

"Ahh, I wish they made badges for spirit mediums!" she suddenly exclaimed, flapping her robed arms for emphasis. "It'd be _so_ much easier! Maybe I'll bring it up at the next village meeting…"

_You'd just forget it or lose it_, Phoenix thought as they finally arrived at their destination. Just in time, the bus pulled up a few moments later, filling the air with that familiar cloud of exhaust. The doors whished open. Both Phoenix and Maya got in line to board.

Finding a seat was simple enough—the bus was far from full. Maya wrinkled her nose at the man sitting in front of them, so drenched in sweat he looked as though he had just climbed out of Gourd Lake. Directly across from their seat, a little old lady drew several pots of fake flowers from a battered brown paper bag and arranged them carefully in the space beside her.

"So what's been going on with you? Aside from letting the paperwork sit around," Maya turned back to Phoenix, seemingly trying to ignore the 'joys' of public transport as best she could.

Phoenix paused. Aside from 'letting the paperwork sit around', there really_hadn't_ been much new in his life. He'd taken a few calls, gone down to the detention center to meet with potential clients, but he hadn't been comfortable taking their cases. The only other thing that came to mind were his regular dinners with Edgeworth, but something inside him squirmed at thought of taking another round of teasing about 'dinner dates'. "Nothing really."

"Nothing? Honestly, you're so boring, Nick."

_We can't all live the exciting life of a spirit medium,_ he thought as the bus pulled away.

* * *

The telephone trilled. Through the open door of the other office, Phoenix saw Maya's head fly up from where she sat at her desk, nearly obscured by the stacks of paperwork in haphazard rows to her left and right. Her expression looked like a cat that had just seen a thick saucer of cream as she reached for the phone. He almost felt guilty as he answered it right before she could pull the receiver off the hook. Almost. 

"Wright and Co Law Offices," he said. The loud voice on the other end instantly launched into their story without so much as a hello. Phoenix cut the man off: "I'm sorry, we're not currently accepting clients."

He put the phone back in its cradle, only to meet the glare of his assistant as soon as he lifted his eyes. Maya stood in front of his desk, hands on her hips.

"Why don't you let _me_ answer the phone? It's part of my job!" she demanded.

"Because you'd actually take them," he answered.

Maya's cheeks puffed out in annoyance, a gesture Phoenix had always found more amusing than threatening. "These people are calling because they want your help!"

_Contrary to popular belief, I'm_ not _the only lawyer in the city._ He motioned to the paperwork scattered all over his desk and to the piles on hers. "We can spare a day to get the old files transferred and the new ones filed. Aren't _you _the one that's always complaining about the state of my desk?"

Maya opened her mouth to retort, but abruptly shut it when the phone rang again. She hesitated for a split second, then: "I'll get it!" Her hand darted out before Phoenix could even blink.

"Wright and Co Law Offices! Yes, we are!" she chirped, looking at Phoenix triumphantly. "Uh-huh…uh-huh…" She frowned suddenly. "Um, I don't think we can be put on reservation if you haven't actually committed the crime yet." She turned to Phoenix once again, cupping her hand over the receiver. "What do you think, Nick?"

"Of course not!"_Did you really have to _ask?!

"Sorry, he says we're not offering that service to our clients at this time."

'_At this time'? More like _never!

Maya replaced the phone once again, lower lip jutting out as though it was somehow Phoenix's fault the caller hadn't been a suitable client.

"All right, that's enough," Phoenix sighed with a meaningful glance in the direction of Maya's desk.

Maya shuffled back across the room. When she reached the doorway she turned back. "I'm going to take a ten minute break!" she announced.

_You had one of those ten minutes ago!_ Phoenix protested, but waved her off. To be honest, he wasn't enjoying this either—too much reading made his head hurt. But the office hadn't been updated in years, and the 'shove things in drawers' method wasn't working as well as it used to.

It was about fifteen minutes later when the door to his office flew open under the pressure of Hurricane Maya. He had just picked up his pen to label another file, but it slipped through his fingers as she rushed to his desk, nearly tripping in her haste. _What's going on, an 'all you can eat' special at the spaghetti place down the street?_

"Nick, we have a client!" she beamed.

"W-what?" Phoenix blinked. He hadn't heard the phone ring. The television was off. Unless Maya had somehow plucked a person in need out of thin air, he was having trouble understanding where this 'new client' had come from.

She reached over and grabbed his arm, scattering the files all over his desk. Phoenix made an aborted attempt to pick them up, but she dragged him away and across the room, practically bouncing in glee at thwarting his plans.

"Come on, he's waiting!"

Indeed, there was a young man sitting on the couch in the outer office—if man was the right word; he looked about nineteen. He was wearing an unobtrusive set of black sweats and a grey sweatshirt, a small, unreadable logo where a breast pocket would be. There was a hint of a larger one on his back.

The stranger breathed heavily, beads of sweat along his brow and trickling down his chiseled face. _He looks like he ran all the way here._ When Phoenix came in, he stood up and ran thick fingers through his brown hair as though trying to present himself respectably.

The effect was somewhat marred by the police-issue handcuffs dangling from his wrist.

"I'll go get you some coffee! Go ahead and tell Nick what you told me." Maya said, rushing back into the office before either of them could say a word.

_Oh boy_, Phoenix thought. His new client, noticing where Phoenix's gaze was directed, grinned sheepishly.

Phoenix gave up. "Why don't you start at the beginning, Mr…?"

"Oh, uh, Joe. Joe Downing."

As Joe launched into his tale of woe, Phoenix briefly wondered if he should call Edgeworth to cancel for tomorrow. _Let's wait and see what happens_, he quickly decided, turning his full attention back to his client.

* * *

Surprisingly, for the way the investigation had played out before they went to trial, everything about the case had unraveled in a matter of hours in court. Phoenix watched as the police led Joe's coach away through the thinning crowd, the older man slumping in defeat. He didn't even meet Joe's eyes as he passed. 

Joe stared after him for a moment, then turned back to Phoenix, digging through his pockets like he was looking for spare change. Instead, he withdrew an unevenly folded sheet of paper and held it out.

"Um, thanks…" Phoenix said as he unwrapped the hastily folded note. Inside was a scribbled 'IOU two tickets to my debut match'. Maya's eyes lit up as she peered from around his back. She plucked the note from his hands, and it disappeared into one of the folds of her robe. _I guess I'll have to set time aside to attend a boxing match some time in the near future,_ Phoenix thought, smothering a sigh.

"I'll never forget what you've done for me, Mr. Wright!" Joe exclaimed, scrubbing the corners of his eyes once again.

"Don't worry about it," Phoenix said, unsure whether he wanted to flinch or smile. It was slightly disconcerting to watch a guy that had managed to KO Gumshoe and escape a police dragnet trying not to cry. _Just as long as you don't forget about the bill—boxing tickets aren't the same as a major credit card_…

Beside him, Maya suddenly bristled like a cat. When Phoenix turned to see what had raised her ire, he came face to face with their prosecutor for the day, a woman by the name of Beatrix Embery.

Phoenix stepped back quickly to allow her to pass. A good thing too, as the sole of her high heel came down where the toe of his loafers had been a second previous. From the sound it made against the tile, had the hit actually landed, she might have very well punctured his shoe. _Someone's_ _a sore loser._

"Oh, _excuse me_," she said, pushing past the three and stalking towards the stairs. The overpowering scent of her perfume lingered in the air long after she had disappeared down the hallway. Maya's nose wrinkled, but she said nothing until Joe said his goodbyes and he was escorted away by the officers to pick up his things at the detention center.

"I can't_believe _that prosecutor!" Maya erupted once he was out of eyesight. "Who does she think she is? And how exactly are my robes 'an eyesore'!? Maybe if she had paid more attention to her case and less to what other people were wearing…"

_I've been against worse. At least this one didn't have a whip_. Phoenix glanced at his watch as Maya continued. Not wanting to chance meeting her again, they walked in the other direction, towards the elevators and past the other three courtrooms on the fourth floor. _Good, we got out earlier than I thought we might_.

"…worked up an appetite!" Maya finished as they passed courtroom eleven. Nothing was going on there but a tired defense lawyer catching a few winks on the lobby couch.

"Huh?" He turned to face her. _Appetite? That was a quick change of topic._

"Come on, Nick! You've been staring at your watch all evening. Pay attention," Maya chastised. "What I said was that being so annoyed, I've really worked up an appetite. Don't forget, you have to make up for five months of missed burgers!"

"Five _weeks_!" Phoenix corrected. With a start, he remembered Edgeworth's trial was in courtroom ten this afternoon. He slowed as they grew closer. A crowd hovered around the open doors, but it was hard to tell if the trial had ended, or if it was in recess.

Phoenix looked at Maya. _I don't think Edgeworth will mind if she comes along…maybe I should have asked…_

"Anyway, I'm just glad it's over…" he said.

"Come on, you need take responsibility and act your part! You're famous now, you know. There's a reason he came to you and not, oh say, Mr. Grossberg," Maya responded as they came to a stop in front of the courtroom doors. Phoenix scanned the crowd for pink and ruffles.

_Because the Wright and Co Law Offices don't call the collection agencies?_ A vision of Joe blinking back tears abruptly surfaced. "No…I'm—"

"Isn't that right, Mr. Edgeworth?" Maya asked.

For a second, Phoenix thought his heart was going to jump out of his chest and smash into the opposite wall. _Yikes, when did he show up?!_

"You're early," Edgeworth said, eyebrow raised when Phoenix turned around to face him. Phoenix opened his mouth, but the prosecutor turned to Maya. "I should probably know what I'm agreeing to before I say yes."

"'A man that would rather do paperwork instead of defending people in court isn't fit to be called a lawyer!' Something along those lines," she said.

Edgeworth considered for a moment, head tilting slightly. "While it's true the lifeblood of any lawyer is standing in the garden of judgment," he began, eyes boring into Phoenix's suddenly. "Organization is the key to keeping your office going. Otherwise it'll collapse in on itself."

"…so, we're both wrong?" Maya's shoulders slumped as she turned her eyes downward.

_No, I'm pretty sure all of that was aimed at me._

"I didn't expect to see you two at the courthouse," Edgeworth said.

"Oh, we just finished up a case! Now we're just trying to think of a place to celebrate," Maya said before Phoenix could interject, face lighting up at the thought of food. "Since it's also celebrating my vacation, I don't think burgers are going to cut it, Nick…"

"I see. Congratulations." Edgeworth said distantly, stiffening slightly like someone had abruptly replaced his spine with a wooden post. He looked over his shoulder at the entrance to the courtroom before turning back to Phoenix. "Have a good time. I'd better be getting back; recess is almost over." With a professional nod in Maya's direction he excused himself, moving quickly.

"Um, Edgeworth!" Phoenix suddenly called before he could get too far. Edgeworth paused.

But it was Maya that broke the stalemate. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth for a brief moment as she looked at Phoenix's somewhat stricken expression. "Why don't you come with us, Mr. Edgeworth? It's been forever since I've been able to talk to you. And you know what they say: three's a crowd!"

_Uh, I don't think that's usually used in a _positive _sense. _

"You have noticed I'm in the middle of a trial, right?" Though his eyes darted to a place to the left of Maya's head, Edgeworth made a passable effort in the face of Fey willpower.

"We'll wait! No matter how hungry Nick is, we'll wait." She turned to Phoenix for confirmation.

_Hey, _you_ were the one complaining about food! I'm fine!_ Phoenix nodded to her, then faced Edgeworth. "Besides…it's Thursday, right?"

Something loosened in Edgeworth's shoulders at those words. Imperceptibly, his mouth shifted from a tense, straight line to something softer, more natural. He said, "I suppose, if you really don't mind waiting…it shouldn't be much longer." His eyes flicked towards Phoenix's briefly before moving to Maya. He gave her a charming smile usually reserved for pet witnesses, but the sudden warmth in his eyes made it genuine. "I know a good German restaurant in the area. Would that be suitable for a case _and_ vacation celebration?"

"Sounds fine to me! Nick's treat, of course!" Maya beamed proudly.

"Of course," Edgeworth's smile turned faintly brittle around the edges when it moved on to Phoenix.

_Maybe I should have called him after all_, Phoenix thought. It was difficult to get too indignant if paying for tonight was what it took to keep the slender bridge that had been built these past few weeks from fraying. "Why don't we meet you there?"

"That's fine."

The bailiff called for the end of recess. People began moving back towards the courtroom, making Phoenix feel like a rock caught in the middle of a river. Edgeworth nodded curtly one last time then turned to go back inside.

Phoenix and Maya watched him, then continued on their way to the elevators. Once they reached the ground level, they joined the flow of people leaving out the front of the building.

"Is it really_that_ hard to ask someone to dinner?" Maya elbowed Phoenix in the ribs as they walked down the courthouse steps, nearly causing him to lose his balance. "I know you two are rivals and all, but still…"

"Huh?" Phoenix eloquently replied, trying not to scowl as he rubbed his side. Even with the thick robes as padding, Maya's elbow was sharp.

"You wanted him to come too, right?" she asked as they reached the end of the sidewalk. Her head whipped from side to side, as if she expected this 'German restaurant' to spring forth in front of her very eyes. "Well, I guess it doesn't really matter if you wanted it or not, since he is!"

"It's not…" Phoenix began and gave up. _It's a little more complicated than that, since I technically had plans with him before I had plans with you…_ Things had worked out somehow, no point in obsessing over it, Phoenix decided.

"The restaurant is down this way," he finally said, motioning to the right.

The further they got from the courthouse, the sparser the crowds became. Maya, as usual, attracted some attention because of her robes, but gave no indication of noticing as they walked.

Once or twice, when a shop caught her attention, she stopped and pressed her face against the glass. Sometimes clothing, and, in one instance beyond Phoenix's ken, a locksmith shop, but it was hardest to pry her away from the small, locally owned toy store with the impressive Whatever-Samurai display in the front window.

When they came across the pizza parlor with the fragrant aroma of garlic and melting cheese —somehow made even stronger by twilight and the chill it brought—wafting from the open door, Phoenix was half afraid she was ready to forget about the dinner date and drag him in for a slice. But she wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth and pressed onwards.

"Mr. Edgeworth seems a little different," she suddenly said once they were out of sight—and smell—of the parlor.

"He's been under a lot of pressure lately." Even under the dim lights of the restaurant, Edgeworth never looked any less tired as the weeks went by. _I wonder if he's been getting enough sleep…_

"No, not that. He seems sort of…hmm…" Maya slowed as she pondered. "More relaxed. Happier, I guess. As far as Mr. Edgeworth goes."

"Really?" Thinking back, there was a difference between their first dinner and their latest, but Phoenix hadn't noticed a particularly dramatic change in the prosecutor's overall demeanor.

"Maybe it's because I haven't seen him in half a year," Maya admitted. "Or it could just be my imagination…"

"That's probably it. People do seem different when you haven't seen them for a while."

Maya nodded, then turned to him with a grin. "Except you, Nick. You're always the same!"

_I'm not sure whether that's a compliment or an insult_. Knowing Maya, it was a little bit of both. "We're here."

Maya's eyes widened appreciatively at the restaurant's warm façade, one hand unconsciously running over the worn, wooden doors as she peered at the posted menu. "Fre…" she began to sound out the name.

_Better wait for Edgeworth for that one,_ Phoenix thought. _I still can't pronounce Schweinsbraten…_

"Did you have to wait long?" a voice behind them asked. Maya whirled around, startled. Edgeworth stood, trench coat folded across his arm, looking almost apologetic—for making them wait or for being there in the first place, Phoenix couldn't tell.

"No," she said. "We just got here!"

Edgeworth nodded.

Phoenix stole another look at his watch as Edgeworth moved to pull open the door. It had only been twenty minutes since they met in the lobby. _He wasn't kidding when he said it shouldn't be much longer. Did he really wrap up a trial in less than fifteen minutes?_ Edgeworth's profile in the flickering light gave no hint one way or the other.

The first thing Phoenix noticed upon walking in was muffled shouting. Two waiters ran past them in the direction of the bar. Phoenix gave into his urge and peered towards the source of the commotion, but Edgeworth moved directly towards the headwaiter.

It was difficult to tell because of the low lighting, but somehow the headwaiter's stare seemed more intense than usual. Maybe it was his imagination—the man didn't seem especially perturbed over the potential bar fight a hundred feet away either—but Phoenix shifted uncomfortably as his gaze moved from Edgeworth, to Maya, and then Phoenix himself.

"Is it possible to add an extra person on to the reservation?" Edgeworth asked in quiet tones as Maya tiptoed towards the bar, bun practically twitching in anticipation over the yelling stemming from that direction. The headwaiter nodded—most of the booths and tables in the restaurant seated four, so it made sense that it wasn't an issue.

"Come on, Maya," Phoenix called. "We're going up." _Whatever's going on in there doesn't need her adding to it_.

'You never let me have any fun," Maya's look said, but she followed the two men up the stairs and to a table in the back. _Far away from the noise_, Phoenix noticed. Edgeworth too, apparently, since he nodded slightly to the headwaiter in thanks.

Upon sitting down, Maya opened her menu with a flourish, shoulders tensing as she pored over the pages the way a student might a textbook. Phoenix gave his a cursory glance. He'd found he was content to order the Schweinsbraten as his usual; something about the routine was comforting. Edgeworth took a little longer—he ordered something different every time—but set his aside once he found what he wanted.

"Hmm," Maya hummed. "I can't decide."

Edgeworth leaned towards her. "Maybe I can help?"

"Well, I'm really hungry, so I can't decide if I want the larger helping filet mignon or if I should just go all out and take the porterhouse…"

Edgeworth glanced across the table. Their eyes met. One corner of Edgeworth's mouth twitched with what looked like the beginnings of a small smile. "If you can't decide, why don't you get both?" he deadpanned.

_Hey, don't_even_ joke about that! She really—_

"Great idea, Mr. Edgeworth!"

There was, perhaps, a tinge of fondness to Phoenix's ensuing sigh. "You do know we're in a _German_ restaurant, right? This is a good chance to expand your boundaries beyond steaks and hamburgers."

"Hey, it's on the menu, right? What could be more German than that?" she replied.

The waiter stepped in before Phoenix could verbalize his retort; his line of sight moved from Edgeworth, to Phoenix, to Maya— whom he greeted, like the headwaiter before him, with a raised, slightly questioning eyebrow. Whatever he found odd about the addition, however, he seemed to choose to keep to himself, as he set the serving of bread before his guests.

Phoenix quickly checked the basket. There was the usual lump of sourdough, and next to it—his stomach rumbled slightly at last—a small, dark loaf of rye. Even though they hadn't come here last week, it seemed the staff still remembered the special request he and Edgeworth put in with the bread each time they visited. Maya made a beeline for Edgeworth's loaf of sourdough, but the prosecutor didn't look particularly bothered.

"And the usual wine today, sir?"

Edgeworth opened his mouth, but Phoenix had already neatly cut in, his eyes on Maya, who looked somewhat too intrigued at the offering of alcohol for his comfort.

"No," Phoenix said. "We'll pass today."

"What?" Maya demanded. "Why?"

"You're underage, aren't you?"

Maya spluttered with indignation, hands smacking the table when words failed. Edgeworth just blinked quietly, seemingly unwilling to get in the middle of their discussion one way or the other.

"What do you mean, underage? I'm _twenty-one_, Nick!"

_You'd never be able to tell with the way you keep banging your fists on the table!_

"Aren't spiritualists supposed to have some kind of—temperance policy or something? For purity of the soul, or whatever?" Phoenix said.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Nick," Maya chided, calming. "Booze doesn't do anything to taint the soul. It just, er—unhinges it a bit. Which is good, actually! In moderation. Or during a festive occasion, like tonight."

_I think if it were up to you, every night would have some excuse to be a 'festive occasion'._

"I mean, she didn't like to be public about it, but Aunt Morgan really knew how to put a few back, too, whenever she had to relieve stress." Maya made the quick motion of a tipping bottle.

_That's actually... not that surprising, come to think of it._

"So," the waiter repeated, managing to sound only slightly pained, "The usual wine, then?"

"Wine? No thanks," Maya scoffed.

Phoenix felt an acute headache building just beneath his temples. "Wait, weren't you just—"

"Come on, Nick, you said it yourself. This is a _German_ restaurant, right? That means _beer_!"

Edgeworth quirked an eyebrow across the table at Phoenix, before shrugging. _It can't be helped._

"Very well, sirs... madam." The waiter bowed once more, casting a final, questioning glance at Maya before departing to place their order.

_Her robes really do attract attention, _Phoenix thought, bemused._ It must be kind of rough drawing stares everywhere you go over a tradition you don't really have say over..._

Edgeworth had a pensive look on his face that told Phoenix he had noticed the same thing, but when their gazes skirted across each others', Phoenix found himself frowning slightly—he couldn't shake the sudden feeling that Edgeworth had seen something he himself had failed to.

* * *

Despite his earlier misgivings, the familiar warm buzz in his head as he watched the beer replenishing his third glass was comforting—though it didn't make him complacent enough to not take Maya's glass from her once she started giggling madly after finishing her second, an uncharacteristic flush spreading across her features. 

"Okay, _Mom,_" Maya grumbled, poking her fingers into the long-empty bread basket. She punctuated her futile efforts with a long-suffering sigh.

_Twenty-one,_ Phoenix thought, vaguely amazed. _Hard to believe. I guess we really have been together for a long time..._

"I was surprised to see you at trial today," Edgeworth remarked. His hand was remarkably steady as he tipped the bottle against the edge of Phoenix's cup, careful not to spill. "It's not like you to pick up cases so quickly in succession."

_I'm not sure how to take that._ "Well, it wasn't exactly something I had planned…"

"Is it ever?" Before Phoenix could reply in somewhat intoxicated indignation, he spoke on. "You won, I presume."

"Of course he won!" Maya said. "It was a slam-dunk victory! Even if Detective Gumshoe had a grudge against our client for giving him a black eye during arrest..."

Phoenix remembered keenly, with an internal wince, the decisive testimony Gumshoe had provided to ascertain that the suspect was, indeed, a boxer.

"And yours, Edgeworth?" _In so much that I even have to ask._

Edgeworth had noticed Maya struggling with the bread; with a quick glance for permission, he slid her plate towards himself to cut into it for her. "It went smoothly, as far as trials go. Ema's gained a considerable amount of confidence since her first testimony last month—" –the corners of his mouth quirked, just for an instant—"to the point that I've been hearing a lot of complaints lately about it from the forensics department."

"She was testifying at your trial?"

"Mm."

"Mmmph." Maya's jaw worked furiously as she hastily swallowed the piece of bread she had set about inhaling as soon as Edgeworth had handed it back to her. "Wait a second, Nick. Who's Ema? Someone you know?"

Edgeworth blinked; his gaze shifted from his water onto Phoenix. _She doesn't know?_

_It just—never came up,_ Phoenix thought back, defensively. Maya's question had caught him off guard, too; but for some reason it had never really occurred to him to sit down with her and reminisce over that one time he ended up proving the police chief guilty of multiple homicides. _Things were pretty hectic right from the get-go when I met Maya again in Kurain, after all..._

Edgeworth sighed and shook his head.

"Is this some big secret?" Maya asked, watching Edgeworth and then turning her eyes back to Phoenix.

"No, not really," Phoenix answered. "I probably should have told you sooner, but there never seemed to be a good time." _I was so upset with Edgeworth back then I guess part of me was probably avoiding talking about it at all._

"Some time back, there was a scandal involving the chief of police being at the center of a murder conspiracy. Wright and I were involved—as was a forensics technician currently working under me, named Ema Skye. Wright defended her older sister in that case," Edgeworth explained.

"Are you serious? When was this?"

Phoenix spoke up this time. "It was a case a couple of months after the one with von Karma wrapped up."

"Oh, so I was in Kurain," Maya frowned; her eyes darted quickly over to Edgeworth, whose expression hadn't changed. "By von Karma you mean—"

"The senior, yeah." Phoenix moved on. _Actually, now that I think about it…_ "I'm surprised you didn't hear about it, Maya. It was all over the papers and television."

"So you defended her older sister?" Maya asked, with a pensive frown. "Hmm...no, I didn't see a thing about it. But I was so busy training back then, I wasn't really paying attention to the news." She paused. "Now I wonder what other deep, dark things you've been hiding from me, Nick!"

Phoenix wasn't quite able to keep the scowl of irritation from passing on his face; he distracted himself with gnawing on another piece of bread.

_That case was what drove Edgeworth to his breaking point, too._ Even now his stomach twisted slightly at the memory of the phone call, and the way all feeling had drained from his fingers at the news of the empty desk and the note left upon it—but there was no reason to bring that up now.

_After all, he came back. That's what matters._

"That must have been really hard on everyone at the force," Maya said, somewhat distractedly, like she was trying to coax a recalcitrant memory out of hiding.

"Yes, it was quite a blow," Edgeworth acknowledged. "I would even say that the office has never quite recovered from it since then."

Maya's finger rested lightly against her cheek, bread cold and forgotten on her plate as she pondered. "You know... the name 'Skye' sounds really familiar."

"Ema's sister was Chief Prosecutor at the time," Edgeworth offered. "Perhaps you knew the name because of that?"

"No, that's not it," Maya said, brows creasing. "I don't really pay attention to things like that. Sis tried explaining the whole hierarchy thing to me, but it went in one ear and out the other."

"Did Mia mention her?" Phoenix asked. "Lana said they knew one another from school."

"That's right!" The breadbasket nearly flew off the table as Maya's hands smacked against the surface. "Sis mentioned there was this really,_really_ good lawyer in one of her classes and they ended up talking a lot. Her name was Lana! She was her first friend Sis made after she left the village to become a lawyer."

Edgeworth looked intrigued. "So Lana Skye and Mia Fey knew one another? I had no idea. Usually you don't see those sorts of friendships in our different legal circles."

"They were pretty close," Maya said, finger tapping her cheek as her eyes once more drifted towards the ceiling. "Sis talked about her all the time. Said she was looking forward to facing her in court. Besides, it can't be _that_ strange for a prosecutor and defense attorney to be close friends!" She punctuated her last line with a meaningful stare at her two dinner companions.

Phoenix and Edgeworth shared a glance. _She's got you there, Edgeworth_.

"What's she up to now?" Maya asked.

"Well…" Phoenix began.

"She's currently a defense attorney," Edgeworth finished.

"So, she's no longer a prosecutor?"

"No, she isn't." Edgeworth seemed to want to leave it at that, so Phoenix didn't interject with exactly _why_ Lana had switched occupations. "The Prosecutor's Office is all the worse for it. Especially since the past few years, it seems like there's been an outcrop of skilled defense attorneys appearing on the scene."

"So having Lana switch…" Phoenix said.

"Yes, it's another blow. But probably what's best for her—her days at our office were finished." The corners of his mouth tugged slightly upwards. "If I didn't know better, I might say you served as an inspiration."

That seemed difficult to Phoenix to fathom.

"I'd love to talk to Lana sometime," Maya said, still lost amidst this newly discovered tie to her older sister. "If she's a defense attorney now, we should invite her over the office one of these days, Nick! I bet she could give you some pointers about how to act like a professional... if Sis looked up to her that much..."

Phoenix looked at her. "I wouldn't mind," he said. Maya returned his look, suddenly flustered, and shook her head quickly.

"But anyway, Mr. Edgeworth, that must be pretty discouraging," She propped a thoughtful hand against the underside of her chin. "Having to deal with tough opponents on top of everything else!"

Edgeworth shook his head. "No. I'm grateful for it—the judicial system requires competent representation on both sides to function properly. It seems long overdue to me, actually—I just wish it didn't come alongside such deterioration at the Prosecutor's Office."

"Like a see-saw," Maya remarked. "It's like you can't have good prosecutors and good defense attorneys at the same time."

"Something like that, unfortunately," Edgeworth said.

"I guess it also depends on how you define 'good', huh? Just because you win a lot doesn't mean you're a 'good lawyer'," Maya said.

Phoenix winced slightly. What she said was true and no one knew it better than Edgeworth. _But those days are long gone_. "Maya—" he began, glancing at Edgeworth. _I know she doesn't mean it how it sounded, but_…

"Yes, you're right," Edgeworth interrupted, meeting Phoenix's gaze head on as he spoke. "But even if that's the case, the onus is still on the other party to cut through the lies and find the truth. You can't use the opponent's failings as an excuse."

The silent 'I learned that from you' hung suspended between them.

"Hmm, in that case," Maya began, smiling widely. "Nick, maybe you should switch to prosecution and help Mr. Edgeworth out!"

The sound of someone clearing their throat broke into the conversation; the waiter had returned, food in hand. Maya's eyes sparkled lustfully as her eyes roved over her meat-heavy platter... before sliding to the right to gaze at Phoenix's dish with equal fervor.

"Maya," Phoenix said.

"What?" she demanded. "I was just _looking!_"

_We'll see how long _that _lasts._

Even as he sighed in familiar resignation, in the corner of his eye, Phoenix saw that Edgeworth was smiling.

* * *

"Phew, I'm stuffed!" Maya announced, stretching as the doors to the restaurant swung to a close behind her. "That restaurant sure gives you a lot of bang for your buck. It's been a while since I've wondered if I'd have to ask for a box when eating out..." 

_You're only so full because you ate most of _my_ meal, too!_

If Maya picked up on his thoughts, she gave no indication of it. "I'm exhausted. Long day today..." She abruptly turned to Edgeworth. "Say, did you park around here?"

"Yes. There's a lot up the street," Edgeworth said, motioning straight ahead.

"Good, then we can walk you to your car!" she announced, swinging her arms and the bag of leftovers Edgeworth had bestowed upon her. "I've always wondered what it looks like." Phoenix could practically see the images of pink and lace seat cushions dancing in her head.

"Don't let her fool you, Edgeworth. She just wants a ride home," Phoenix said with the air of a put-upon older brother translating for the masses.

"You have no sense of tact!" Maya complained, once again doing a frightfully good impression of a blowfish, but she didn't deny his accusation.

_I'm not the one trying to bum rides off people! _Nevertheless, the three began walking down the street towards the location Edgeworth had pointed out, Maya running ahead and motioning for the other two 'old farts' to hurry up when their pace was too slow for her liking.

"I don't mind giving you two a ride." Edgeworth's voice was quiet beside Phoenix, but the faint undertone of warmth seemed to linger in the night air. "You'll have to give me directions, though."

"Oh, um, no problem!" Phoenix said, shaking out of his stupor as they caught up with Maya at the entrance.

Maya called shotgun the instant the car came into view—as red and sleek as Phoenix remembered it years ago when Ema had enthusiastically called it gaudy before smearing its fresh paint job with her fingerprints in the name of scientific investigation.

Phoenix slid into the back seat, and Maya gave a small 'Ooo' of appreciation when she felt the leather seats against her skin and noticed the paneled dashboard. Phoenix hurriedly reached for his seatbelt when Edgeworth turned the keys to start the engine.

"Why can't you have a car this nice, Nick?" Maya said as Edgeworth maneuvered the car out of the lot, engine purring like a happy tiger under the hood.

_There's no point in having a car if you can't drive it_.

"Even if you _had_ your license, you still wouldn't have a car like this!" Maya responded to his wordless retort in that irritating way people sometimes did. "Maybe you really should switch to prosecution."

"We're having enough problems with organization as it is without Wright adding to it," Edgeworth said dryly.

_Nice way to treat the guy who sprang for your meal!_ Phoenix folded his arms and focused his attention to the streets outside. It was hard not to smile at the two chuckles—one low and faint, the other high and sweet—from the front seat at his pouting act.

As the sight of the city rushed pass them through the windows, Maya pressed her fingers and nose against the window.

"Oooo," she marveled again.

_You'd think she was on an amusement park ride or something._

Edgeworth's eyes flicked from the road before him, quickly, onto Phoenix, and then adjacent to Maya.

"I imagine there aren't a lot of automobiles kept in Kurain."

"Yep, that's right," Maya answered, swiveling her head back to face him. "Everyone there pretty much relies on the train to get anywhere that's not in walking distance."

"Don't tell me this is your first time in a car?" Phoenix asked in disbelief.

"Of course not, Nick!" Maya huffed, topknot bouncing with indignation just in view beyond the seat of the car. "But it has been a while. I think the last time I actually rode in a car was..." Maya's brow furrowed. "Wow, has it really been that long? Almost six years ago, when I was visiting Sis in her new place. I guess you could count the times I've ridden in taxis or a police car, but they weren't like_this_."

"But you're on the bus and the train all the time. I don't really see the—"

"It's _totally_ different, Nick. You just don't get it. You need to appreciate the distinction between the finer details in life."

_So says the girl who won't stop harassing me for pointing out the distinction between a ladder and a stepladder!_

Edgeworth's head turned slightly; though only his profile was visible, Phoenix thought he could see the trace of another smile against his mouth, illuminated by the sunset. The fading light caught his hair at just the right angle as the glow played across the contours of his face, softening his features. It brought to mind what Maya had said earlier, about Edgeworth seeming happier. Maybe it wasn't as far-fetched as he'd thought.

He hadn't noticed they had pulled up to the parking lot of the apartment complex until he registered Maya's voice.

"Ahhh," she said. "My home away from my home away from home!" She stretched, one hand against the back of her elbow, as soon as she stepped out of the car.

"The guest room has felt so empty without you," Phoenix remarked, deadpan. He followed her out into the cool evening air. _It's later than I thought..._

"I bet," she chirped back, through her yawn. "Why don't you come in with us, Mr. Edgeworth?"

Edgeworth blinked; his hand was already poised back on the keys to re-start the ignition. "No," he said quickly. "It's all right. I have work to get done, anyway."

"Then—"

_Next Thursday_ died on Phoenix's lips as Maya jumped forward insistently.

"Just for a second," she said. "Who knows when we'll get to see you next? You're so busy all the time." A mischievous smile lit her features. "Besides, I've been dying to show my limited collection edition of the Steel Samurai DVD set to someone. Someone who _understands._" She cast a dark look at Phoenix.

Edgeworth chewed his lip. "Well..."

"It has all this neat commentary from the directors and everything, and a really cool extras reel of the history of the franchise, and an in-depth look at how they do the special effects, and--"

The sound of the engine cut off abruptly. "All right, then."

_That's all it took!?_

The prosecutor stepped out of the car, snapping the lock in place with a flick of his thumb.

* * *

Phoenix had meant to tidy the place up a little about three days ago. He remembered the proceedings of that evening quite clearly; the thought had struck him at around two o'clock, when the sound of an empty beer can crunching under his foot nearly made him jump out of his skin; he had eyed the closet where the aged broom hung neglected, decided he would attend to it later, and went on to spend the rest of the night watching television. 

His first instinct was to freeze in the doorway, to block Edgeworth from entering—a second later it registered that he was being ridiculous, but his feet still seemed unnaturally heavy as he moved out of the way.

"Sorry," he muttered, quickly.

Edgeworth's eyes darted across the scene—the dirty clothes strewn across the couch, the flickering television he hadn't bothered to turn off before leaving for the office, and the remnants of last week's dinner still accumulating on the coffee table. His expression remained neutral, and somehow this made Phoenix more uncomfortable than he thought he would have been if Edgeworth had announced his distaste outright.

"You want something to drink?" he offered, face still somewhat hot.

"Aw, don't bother," Maya teased, then, turning to Edgeworth: "He doesn't keep anything around this place besides diet soda. Trust me."

"I do so," Phoenix objected. "I'll go get something. Hold on."

Having said that, when he moved into the kitchen, he wasn't sure if he actually had sufficient evidence to back up that statement. Stooping next to the mini-fridge, his mind raced, trying to think back to the last time it_hadn't_ been soda he'd loaded up in here. He didn't care to think of the vicious teasing he'd be subjected with if he dared return to the living room with a glass of tap water, either.

Pushing aside the styrofoam-encased remnants of two weeks ago—_I still haven't thrown that stuff out?_—he caught sight of a few cans of beer shoved into the back corner, and reached forward to pry them from their hiding spot. _It's something, I guess._

When he made his way back into the living room, Edgeworth was standing by himself at the doorway. Phoenix could only assume Maya had run off to get her DVD set—or action figures—or trading cards—or whatever it was she had been frothing about this time. There was always something.

"Catch," he called out.

Edgeworth caught the can deftly in one hand; he turned it over and inspected the label with the air of a scientist evaluating its latest dissection victim in grim resignation.

"There's water, too," Phoenix offered, lamely, after a long moment.

"Never mind," Edgeworth said, and popped the tab.

"You can sit down," Phoenix said. Edgeworth only hesitated for a second before he obliged, taking his place on the least cluttered part of the couch. "How is it?"

"It's absolutely foul," Edgeworth said flatly, and took another drink. Phoenix opened his own can, settling in next to him, before raising it to his lips. _Ugh. I guess I can't really blame him for that assessment._

The familiar sound of clomping footsteps alerted Phoenix to his assistant's return without having to look up.

"Ta-dah!" Maya announced, swinging a plastic-wrapped box above her head, as though hoisting a trophy. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Edgeworth! Here it is!" Edgeworth nearly spilled beer over himself with the force that Maya thrust it into his arms, but he didn't comment on it.

"Pristine condition," he noted.

"Naturally!" Maya beamed. "This thing is worth its weight in gold. I'm really surprised you don't have it yourself, with all the money you make."

"I just haven't had the time lately."

"I'll let you borrow my usable one!"

Phoenix raised his head in disbelief. "What do you mean, usable!?"

"Duh, Nick." Maya made a chiding clicking sound in the back of her throat at his sad ignorance. "The one I unwrapped to actually watch."

_Wait, you bought two copies just so you could keep one in its wrapping!?_

Phoenix sighed, reclining back on the couch_. I will never understand._

"If you don't mind," Edgeworth murmured, still turning the box over to admire its trappings, "I would like that."

"It's a deal, then."

Maya gave a thumbs up that—to Phoenix's vague horror—reminded him rather of Larry, before stretching again and rubbing her eyes, reaching for one of the cans. Phoenix whisked them out from under her fingertips.

"Oh, come _on_," Maya complained, echoing her displeasure from the restaurant.

"I thought you said you were tired?" Phoenix countered.

"I think I can put myself to bed, Nick!" she huffed. Phoenix didn't mention the more annoyed she got, the more he was reminded of their very first year together. Sometimes he wondered if she would be forever suspended in time for him, seventeen—_subtract ten for mental age?—_until the day she died.

Something must have shown on his face, because she suddenly rolled her eyes and laughed. "You really are impossible," she said, moving to the kitchen to put her coveted leftovers away in Phoenix's fridge, where they would probably be devoured as a midnight snack when one of her stomachs demanded nourishment.

"Okay, okay," she said once she was done, turning back to the two men with a flourish. "I _am_ tired. I'll see you tomorrow. Don't make yourself a stranger, Mr. Edgeworth! And don't give yourself liver poisoning, Nick."

"I'll do my best." Phoenix remarked, finally setting the case back atop the table.

Maya tossed her head, putting a hand on her hip even as she grinned affectionately. "I always have to be worrying about you, don't I?"

_Look who's talking!_ Phoenix came very close to replying, but Maya had already spun on her heels and disappeared beyond the door of the guest room, long hair and robes trailing after her. It struck Phoenix that it must be a relief to finally be able to peel the heavy things off.

"Some things never change," Phoenix said.

"I'm not so sure," Edgeworth said. "Those new robes she was wearing... they're a mark of her rank in the village now, aren't they?"

_Pretty astute._"Yeah, that's what she said when I asked."

"They look as though they carry a lot of weight."

"Well, yeah," Phoenix agreed, puzzled, "but that's not exactly what I meant."

Edgeworth didn't lift his gaze from his can as he swirled its contents before him. "Mmm."

_Why do I feel like I just missed something?_

"Before I forget," Edgeworth suddenly said, getting up to retrieve his jacket from where it lay across the chair. He reached inside an inner pocket, frowning as his fingers groped for something. A moment later, he pulled out a familiar videocassette. "Here, I've been meaning to return this to you."

Alcohol made Phoenix less prudent than he might have been otherwise. "Did you get a chance to watch it?" he asked, trying not to sound too eager and failing.

"Yes, it was…" Edgeworth paused as he settled back down on the couch next to Phoenix. He titled his head slightly as he thought.

_You don't have to tell me the technical flaws,_ Phoenix thought. He hadn't watched the tape before passing it along, but he remembered the shaky, out-of-focus camerawork, and the off screen comments of the friend who had taped it well enough. _What was I thinking when I gave it to him last time? He said he didn't want to watch it…_

"It was interesting," Edgeworth finally said.

_That bad, huh?_

"It looked like you were having fun up on stage," Edgeworth continued. "And I suppose you weren't terrible, for an extra. The acting was also impressive—better than I thought a college production would be."

"Ivy University has a good drama department. That's why I decided to go there," Phoenix said, picking up his half-empty beer and taking a quick swig before turning back to the prosecutor. "You probably didn't have a lot of time to see stuff like this at your school, huh?" _If he passed the bar at twenty, all he did was study, I imagine._

"That would be true, in a sense." Edgeworth shifted like the couch had grown thick, uncomfortable lumps beneath him. "I didn't go to college."

Phoenix's beer nearly slipped out of his lax fingers; he had to fumble to keep it from spilling. _Did he just…did I mishear him?_ He set his can down on the coffee table before turning his full attention back to Edgeworth and tentatively asking, "Is that even possible? I mean, the bar exam…?"

"Our state is one of the few that allows you to study under a lawyer as an apprentice in lieu of formal schooling," Edgeworth explained stiffly. "And, well, Manfred von Karma was an institution in and of himself. With the training he gave, I probably could have passed even earlier than I did."

The idea of Edgeworth not attending college was almost unfathomable—the man spoke _at least_ five languages, was considered to be one of the top prosecutors in the nation, if not the world. And Phoenix had a degree, but _he_ didn't?

Edgeworth's expression soured; he folded his arms and began tapping his finger distractedly. "I assure you, I didn't lack for education, Wright. I had a whole battery of private tutors to instruct me in what von Karma wasn't interested in teaching."

"No," Phoenix shook his head. "I didn't mean…" Edgeworth was obviously well educated; even without actually attending college it was hard to imagine he didn't get the best the von Karma money could buy.

_Still, it must have been…lonely._ Phoenix's memories of college were along the lines of late night cram sessions, blowing off class to hang out with a couple of his friends, and, in one instance, throwing up in the dorm hallway after downing too many shots of tequila. Stacks of musty law books gathered from the corners of the library, thick with the scent of old glue and dust. 'Dollie's' hand warm in his as they walked across campus after a late evening stroll…

_I wouldn't give up any of them…well, except the dorm hallway one. Maybe._

"What was it like?" he found himself asking, sneaking a glance out of the corner of his eye to gauge Edgeworth's mood. To his surprise, instead of tensing up, the prosecutor's gaze grew pensive.

"Franziska and I studied together," he said. "Some of the books were too heavy for her when she was young, so she used to set them on the floor and hunch over them. She was terrible at spelling when she first started typing, so I used to go over her case studies before she turned them in. She accused me of just wanting to cheat off her, of course…" he trailed off, reaching for his own beer and taking a sip. "It was difficult. Manfred von Karma was…" His throat seemed to close in on itself. "But, I learned a lot," he managed.

It was the most Edgeworth had ever said about that period of his life. _He has his own memories_. While Phoenix wasn't sure he'd be able to look back as fondly over a decade spent studying with Franziska von Karma, he supposed they were as important to Edgeworth as Phoenix's own college recollections were to him.

"Ivy University," the prosecutor suddenly said, switching the subject. "That's fairly prestigious." 

"Yeah," Phoenix said, still distracted. "It was a miracle I made it in, really."

"I don't doubt it."

_Thanks a lot,_Phoenix thought, but he was beyond the point of taking offense.

"But..." Edgeworth paused. "You have a habit of pulling off miracles."

Phoenix shifted in his seat, putting back another swallow of beer. "It's not really... it's like you said. It's how the court's supposed to work, isn't it? Bringing out the truth..."

"That's not what I meant."

Edgeworth turned towards him, abruptly, and there was something heavy in his expression—not the same curdling self-hatred or bitterness that Phoenix could still remember, reflected in his eyes through the haze of mist above Gourd Lake.

_It was like looking at a different person._ It was like flipping through a mental photo album; the different glimpses he had captured of Edgeworth through their lives—the determined nine-year-old, unable to keep still at any sign of perceived injustice; the 'demon prosecutor' captured in the newspaper with a shadow always lurking just behind the carefully sculpted air of confidence—and the wretched figure Phoenix remembered facing across the courtroom lobby and later through the glass of the detention center.

The light in his eyes was different now, focused and determined—trained on the future rather than the past.

_No, that's not right._

There was a DVD collection of a children's show cradled next to him, a can of cheap beer in his right hand, cravat loose and the impression of something like a smile around his eyes if not necessarily his mouth. It dawned on Phoenix.

_He's right here._

At some point, the space between them on the couch had vanished. The length of Edgeworth's arm was comfortably warm against his—it brought to mind rainy afternoons from their childhood, huddled together over the latest issue of some comic book on Phoenix's bed. Maybe it was the beer that was peeling back the years between them. It was a nice thought, especially if it lasted.

_Maya was right,_ he thought suddenly. _He's come a long way._

"You're smiling."

"It's just been a long time," Phoenix said.

"A long time," Edgeworth echoed.

As Phoenix reached for his beer on the coffee table, Edgeworth leaned forward at the same time. Something stopped Phoenix from pulling back.

An inch closer and we'd be— 

Edgeworth leaned forward.

Phoenix closed his eyes. Every nerve ending in his body seemed to relocate to his lips. He felt, rather than heard, the soft, low sound Edgeworth made in the back of his throat as they shifted position slightly. When Edgeworth began to pull away, Phoenix instinctually followed, pressing insistently until Edgeworth's mouth parted again.

Edgeworth moved, couch squeaking. Phoenix didn't realize what Edgeworth had planned until he felt the prosecutor's fingers in a clumsy caress along his arm. The contact was a splash of ice water.

Instantly sober, Phoenix wrenched away. Even with the loss of contact they still seemed too close, the other man too near. He stumbled up and away from the couch, nearly tripping over the coffee table in his haste. Distantly, he heard the sound of beer cans overturning, contents spilling. Phoenix's breath came in short, shuddering pants—_because I was—_as his wide eyes darted around the room, trying to settle on something neutral.

Something that wasn't Edgeworth.

But everything seemed too heavy, the edges somehow sharp and painful. He blinked rapidly before inexorably turning back to face the prosecutor. Edgeworth squirmed underneath Phoenix's wide stare, but, for once, didn't turn away. Instead, he met it head on. Phoenix recognized it as the look the prosecutor adopted when he was trying to tell Phoenix something without putting it into words. ('_All we have is the truth'. 'I'm going after her.' 'I'm sorry.' 'Good job.' 'I knew you could do it.' 'I learned that from you.'_)

Phoenix felt his nails bite into his palms.

_I have no idea what he's trying to say_.

He watched that_something_ twist in his friend's eyes, before it finally faded away.

After what seemed like hours of the only sound in the room the ticking of the kitchen clock and steady dripping of beer on to the carpet, Edgeworth broke eye contact. "I think I should probably go," he said, getting up.

"Yeah. That'd be best." The words were too loud, like they were coming from somewhere else besides Phoenix's mouth. Anything else he wanted to say congealed in his throat—a thick, unmovable lump.

Edgeworth jerked—like Phoenix's words had burned him—but continued moving towards the door, stopping only to retrieve his shoes. Phoenix heard, rather than saw, the front door open and then, a few seconds later, shut.

It was only then Phoenix was able to move.

As he sank back down on to the couch, some distant part of him wondered how he could feel so hollow and yet so heavy at the same time.


	4. Chapter 4

Struggling Against Gravity

Chapter Four

Against better instincts, Phoenix cracked one eye. The back of the brown couch met his gaze, so close he could see the individual pattern of the cushions. Mumbling in the back of his dry throat, he shifted to face outwards. He closed his eyes to go back asleep—even without a clock in sight, something told him it was far earlier than he normally liked to wake up—but somehow he couldn't find a comfortable spot.

When a particularly persistent lump seemed to be burrowing into his spine, he gave up and rose to survey the room with bleary eyes. He'd slept in his dress pants and shirt, he noted with vague irritation. He tugged at them, trying to get comfortable.

Logically, the room shouldn't look much different—it wasn't like the coffee table had been straight before Edgeworth came, and there had already been beer cans on the floor—but somehow everything seemed out of whack. As though he were seeing the mess for the first time: the cans, the pizza boxes with the dried husks of crust left to rattle inside—everything seemed new and nauseating.

_It reminds me of college_, Phoenix tried to tell himself, remembering the times he'd woken up on friends' couches and see the destruction wrought by late night drinking.

His eyes fell on the video, still perched on the edge of the coffee table.

Without even thinking about it, he grappled for his phone, suddenly overcome with the urge to call Edgeworth and…what? _Make sure he's still there_. The thought was so ludicrous that the phone slipped from his grasp. It stared at him from the floor. He averted his eyes to the kitchen clock off to his right.

_It's seven o'clock in the morning. Even if he were there, he'd still be asleep. And I'd rather not deal with a crabby Edgeworth this early._ The tension submerged somewhat, like wrapping a klaxon in layers upon layers of cotton.

_He probably wouldn't answer anyway, at this hour,_ he told himself There was a tiny hitch in the back of his mind. Thinking about it, was there ever a time Edgeworth hadn't answered his phone when Phoenix had called? _Yeah, but I don't usually call at seven in the morning_.

Phoenix glanced up upon hearing the audible click of a door opening from down the hall. As expected, Maya padded into view a few moments later. Her long-sleeved nightgown swished around her ankles, so long it made granny nighties look almost scandalous in comparison.

She let out a surprised squeak as soon as she saw him. "Nick! You scared me!" she said somewhat reproachfully.

_She's surprised to see me in my own apartment?_

"Usually I have to drag you out of bed," she continued, looking strangely annoyed at the interruption of their routine. It was true; normally he woke up just as she was done with her morning meditation. Then they bickered about breakfast until he gave up and they both went down to the local bagel shop on the corner.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Well, I guess it's not your fault," Maya said, moving closer. The chair squeaked ominously—_I should probably get that replaced—_as she flopped down pulling the rest of her nightgown out from behind her, squirming to what seemed to be reasonable comfort.

"I had fun last night," she said. "We should do it again soon. Like, today! I wonder if Mr. Edgeworth is doing anything tonight…"

"He's probably busy, Maya," Phoenix said carefully. His throat felt tight, almost too narrow for words to fit. _I need something to drink._

"Yeah, you're probably right." Maya stretched, back popping audibly. "You two are hopeless. One can't get anything done, the other can't slow down…"

"Uh-huh," Phoenix mumbled.

"Speaking of which, where is Mr. Edgeworth? At the rate you two were going, I thought he'd spend the night."

"He left." It felt like Maya's words were being filtered through water. _There's a reason I don't like waking up this early, I guess._

Maya reached to rub a lock of her hair; unbound, it pooled over the side of the chair and nearly to the ground. "Looks like I missed the after dinner party." She stretched her toes to poke at one of the beer cans.

Her other foot glanced against the beer puddle still soaking into the carpet next to the chair. Her face wrinkled in disgust as she pulled the foot up, inspecting to make sure it hadn't landed in anything worse than beer. "On second thought, maybe I'm glad I missed it."

Phoenix sat quietly, eyes trained on the can as Maya rocked it back and forth. "Yeah…" he finally said, trailing off. He must have sounded more out of it than he thought; a few seconds later, he realized Maya was waiting for him to say something else.

Nothing came to mind.

"So, what exactly happened here? Don't tell me Mr. Edgeworth is a rowdy drunk!"

"I'm not really in the mood to talk right now," Phoenix replied.

Maya's smile flickered briefly before it melted into a more subdued expression.

They sat in silence for a while. Eventually Maya seemed to get bored with the beer can and began twisting her fingers together into knots. Usually fidgeting tended to provoke some sort of reaction from Phoenix, even if it was just an irritated sigh.

When Phoenix seemed disinclined to respond, move, or even blink, she worried her lips between her teeth, darting glances at him as though trying to build up enough courage to broach something she'd rather not. "Um, did you two get into--"

"Didn't I just say I don't want to talk about it?"

Maya's eyes widened slightly and she pressed into the back of the chair. An invisible hand around Phoenix's stomach clenched briefly. He ran his hand through his hair and took a deep breath before continuing. "I just woke up and I didn't sleep well, so…"

A beat too late: "No, I understand!" Maya's voice started too high, stretched too thin, but quickly settled into its natural timbre. She stuck out her tongue. "I should have known better than to try to carry on a conversation with you this early—especially before you've had some coffee!"

Maya… 

Before he could say anything, she was on her feet, carefully avoiding the puddle as she strode towards the kitchen. "Now, what do you have around here for breakfast…"

Phoenix watched as she opened the refrigerator and seemed to ponder her leftovers before pushing back the containers full of various shades of mold in her search for something edible. A quick whiff of one of his older milk cartons—he got milk every time he went to the store as a force of habit—had her making a trip to the sink to dump it out, pinching her nose tightly closed the entire time.

After a few more minutes of watching her move on to dig through the freezer, Phoenix hefted himself up off the couch and moved towards the kitchen, stopping only to pull his shirt away from where it stuck to his back. Once there, he reached up and opened the cabinet above Maya's head, next to the fridge.

"Same thing I always have," he half-sighed, motioning to the sad assortment of boxes—some of them five or six months old.

"_Cereal_?" Maya asked, in the same tone as if Phoenix had offered her a bowl of dryer lint. "We've been over this before! _That _is not breakfast."

Phoenix repressed a small smile despite himself. Maya continued, "Breakfast has to be_warm_. Like oatmeal with brown sugar, and eggs, and waffles, and bacon, and sausage, and…"

_Yeah, _that_ sounds balanced._ A very small part of him whispered 'thank you' as his assistant spun her protracted list of what breakfast was and wasn't.

"You could always warm up the milk," he deadpanned, opening the fridge. Maya paused in mid-sentence; Phoenix could practically hear the gears whirling as her mind considered.

_I was just kidding!_ Heaving a sigh, Phoenix reached into his back pocket and fished out his wallet. He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill; Maya plucked it from his fingers with a triumphant grin.

"Okay, let me go get dressed, then we can go!" she chirped, moving back into the living room at a fast clip.

"Uh, Maya--" he called. The only answer was the slamming of the door to the guestroom. And then, a few seconds later, the sound of the shower running.

She reappeared about ten minutes later, hair still damp. She smoothed the front of her robes with one hand, sandals in the other. "I'm ready!"

"Why don't you go ahead without me," Phoenix said. "I'm not very hungry."

Maya lost some of her buoyancy, like a balloon slowly sinking to earth. "Are you sure? We always…"

"I know," Phoenix finished, then motioned to the rest of the room "There's some stuff I have to do. This place is a mess."

Another uncomfortable beat passed.

"Okay," she finally said, moving towards the door in a defeated shuffle.

"Maya!" Phoenix called just before she was right out the door. She poked her head back in. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. "Why don't you bring me something back? I'll probably be starving by the time I get the living room clean."

"Will do!" she called. Her answering smile was a trifle bit smaller than it was normally, but it was a start.

As soon as the door to his apartment swung shut, Phoenix's own smile dissolved. He sighed and moved back into the kitchen, bending down under the sink to retrieve a thick, black trash bag.

It should have been a relief to shovel the cans, pizza boxes, and outdated newspapers inside the bag. Instead he just felt irked, like something was alternately pinching and poking his nerve endings. He contemplated the beer spill for a few moments, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale alcohol. _Guess I can't just leave it_…

It took a quick trip back to the kitchen for a basin of water and a rag before he got on his hands and knees and began scouring. Distantly he recalled that this wasn't the way you were supposed to get stains out of the carpet, but couldn't bring himself to care. _I just want it gone._

After several minutes, Phoenix leaned back and wiped his forehead. He wasn't sure if his cleaning had done any good in the long run, but at least the smell of old beer was no longer assaulting his nose and making him ill. Finally he leaned down to retrieve his cell phone—which he shoved in his pocket quickly without even sparing it a glance—and grabbed the tape of his performance from where it still sat near the end of the coffee table.

He let it fall in the back of his closet with a muffled clatter as he pulled his other suit off the rack and transferred his cell into its pocket. It felt strange to see his bed already made this morning as he laid his clean suit across it. Most of the time, he was in too much of a hurry to deal with it just after waking up.

Walking into his bathroom, there were still faint traces of steam from Maya's shower earlier. Her toiletries had also overtaken his; he had to dig around to find his wash cloth and soap. The bathroom was cleaner than the rest of his house, but still somewhat dilapidated; the tiles needed replacing and the linoleum was curling at the edges behind the toilet.

Once inside the shower, Phoenix pulled the curtain forward, pushed the knob as far to the left as it would go, and lost himself in the blisteringly hot water.

By the time he was done and dressed, Maya had returned. It was a lie, Phoenix realized as she held out the bag of bagels in a well-meaning offering and his stomach lurched in protest.

He still wasn't hungry.

"Let's head to the office," he said instead.

* * *

The office was a mess too. Upon entering, his stomach sank even lower—it was somehow incredibly depressing to ping-pong from one pigsty to the other. Granted, Phoenix had had to leave it in a hurry the day before yesterday due to the unexpected client, but it had left decidedly non-filed paperwork scattered over the desk and its surrounding floor. But much like his apartment, the wreckage looked different, today, somehow—impersonal and alien, the lines oddly shifted, the lighting subtly off-color. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mia's roll of addresses left open on the left corner. Edgeworth's cell phone number was still the newest entry, scrawled near the bottom, marked with a date from a month previous. Phoenix pushed it to a different letter. 

"Hey, Nick," Maya called in from the other room. "Don't forget to finish Mr. Downing's paperwork, too, okay?"

_It never ends._

Resigned, Phoenix cleared a decent portion of the desk space with a sweep of his arm, forcing the floor to sacrifice a few more scraps of its linoleum dignity. It took a few seconds of digging before he managed to locate and pry Joe's final contracts out from amongst the chaos.

Even the words on the paper seemed distorted. The letters jumbled together, not quite clicking into place as whole, cohesive sentences. He could easily say the same about most of the legal documents he'd been forced to deal with over the years, but there was a strange feeling of unease as he scanned the fine print for any of those nasty catches his profession was supposed to be so good at.

He sighed, standing abruptly—then sat back down, agitated. He tapped the edge of the pencil against the paper, trying to clear the distracted static from his head and will the inexplicable discomfort out of his system.

Unsuccessful on all counts, Phoenix finally just dropped the pencil in frustration, and watched it bounce against the surface of the desk once before rolling to a stop against his cell phone. His line of vision moved with it automatically, and it registered suddenly that the screen of the phone was alerting him that he had missed approximately half a dozen calls from around midnight last night. He picked it up to take a closer look.

_He couldn't have tried to--_

A quick check to the call history corrected him before he could complete the thought.

_Pearls?_ A familiar jolt of worry, carried on the recollection of a frigid temple and a burning bridge, flitted his senses like the ache from an old wound. He hit the redial button, pressing the phone against his ear. It only rang once before the sound of a young voice filtered over the line.

"Mr. Nick?"

Phoenix felt himself relax fractionally. "Pearls?"

Pearl hesitated. "Yes, Mr. Nick, it's me."

"Are you okay, Pearls?" Phoenix asked. She sounded fine—albeit puzzled, and he could practically see the pensive frown playing across her features—but fine. "You kept trying to call last night..."

"Oh!" Pearl exclaimed, and Phoenix could hear the sound of the lightbulb going off above her head. "Y-yes, I'm just fine, Mr. Nick. I'm very sorry to have worried you. It's just, I didn't get Mystic Maya's message right away yesterday, and I wanted to make sure she had arrived safely..."

"Maya's...? Oh. You mean, that she was coming up here?"

"Yes, that's right."

"She's here," Phoenix said. "She's fine. At her desk right now, actually."

"That's a relief," Pearl said. "I wasn't able to reach her yesterday evening, so I was concerned. So then I tried to contact you, Mr. Nick, but..."

"Yeah," Phoenix said. "We were out together. Sorry about--"

"Yes, I thought you might be!" Pearl's voice suddenly broke from her carefully measured formality, ingrained during her years at Kurain, like an igniting lantern. "No, no, don't mind me, it's perfectly all right! Take as much time with each other as you want!"

Phoenix sighed. He could feel his headache becoming several measures worse—he should have known better than to hope the sudden acquisition of a few inches in height would be enough to cure her mind of its longtime affliction with fairy tale delusions.

"Anyway, Pearls," Phoenix said. "You're up in Hazakura, aren't you? Are you having a good time?"

"Yes! I'm teaching Miss Iris and Sister Bikini how to brew some of the blends of tea that are local to Kurain," Pearl chattered excitedly. "I'm very happy that I'm able to share something with them, after all of the kindness they've shown me, even if it's something as small as that... and the three of us have been practicing tea ceremony together, too..."

In spite of his foul mood, Phoenix felt the corners of his own mouth crease slightly. "That sounds great."

"They have the cutest tea confectionaries here, too, Mr. Nick. Sister Bikini says she and Miss Iris make them all themselves. Isn't that amazing? They taste really good, too... I'll bring some back for you to try when I see you again!"

It seemed that every time Pearl returned from one of her visits to Hazakura, she had some kind of gift in hand for he and Maya—matching sets of beaded bracelets, simple hand-crafted pottery, and in one instance, at least five dozen paper cranes suspended on a colorful band of string. Phoenix had been recruited as the tallest person Pearl could think of to drape them over her windows in her room at Fey Manor. Despite his initial resentment at having to board a train for two hours for the sake of two minutes' worth of interior decorating, her delight at seeing the sunlight filter through the shapes of the origami had, somehow, made it worthwhile in the end.

"Mr. Nick, you've never seen Hazakura in the summertime, have you?" Pearl asked. "You should come sometime with Mystic Maya. It's really beautiful, everything smells so fresh and clean and the way the trees rustle is really soothing, like wind chimes..." She trailed off, her voice taking a thoughtful, somewhat more somber air. "And, I think Miss Iris gets a little lonely, too..."

Phoenix paused. "Yeah..."

"Oh, did you want to talk to Miss Iris? She's right here."

Phoenix's fingers tensed against the phone. He felt a strange lurch against his stomach, as though a stray fish hook had scored its mark amidst his lower intestines.

Nearly a full minute passed until Phoenix heard the crackle of breath against the receiver once again. He imagined Pearl's invitation had caught Iris nearly as off guard as it had for Phoenix himself.

"Phoenix?"

"Iris."

There was a short pause on the other end—the hook jerked a little further to the right—before Iris laughed, softly. As always, the sound of it made the air around Phoenix feel a little warmer, a little more welcoming to his presence. He relaxed, unsure why he had been so uptight in the first place.

"Hello, Phoenix."

"Hey," he said. "How have you been lately, Iris?"

"About the same as the last time we talked." Iris's voice was faintly amused. "Things don't change much up here beyond the passing of the seasons."

_I wish I could say the same._

"Thanks for looking after Pearls."

"It's no problem at all," Iris said. "Actually, Sister Bikini and I always look forward to her visits. When it's just the two of us, it tends to get very quiet around the temple. Pearl has a way of making everything seem brighter when she's with us."

_I can't deny that_. Phoenix had often been witness to the same phenomenon.

"Still," he said.

"Oh, you and Mystic Maya both," Iris said, audibly suppressing another quiet laugh. "I mean it. It's anything but trouble. That's right—how is Mystic Maya? She's with you, isn't she?"

"Yeah. She's fine—content to watch me doing paperwork, as usual."

"Paperwork?" Iris asked.

"I've been putting it off for a while," Phoenix admitted. "I had it coming. It's probably going to take me a couple of days to get through it all."

"That brings back memories," Iris remarked. Before Phoenix could answer, she went on to say, "That reminds me. I wanted to thank you for the letter you sent last week." Her voice softened. "It means a lot to me."

"Oh—no, no problem. I'm just glad to hear it got there all right this time." Negotiating with the workings of the post office was an interesting exercise when trying to send mail to a location as remote, and frankly dangerous, as Hazakura Temple, Phoenix had discovered.

"What about you?"

"What?" He winced slightly, hearing the edge in his own voice—it was a perfectly ordinary question, but it had somehow caught him off guard.

The somewhat puzzled note in Iris's tone told him that she had noticed, too. "Things are going all right, aren't they?"

"It's been..." He trailed off. Somehow, though, it was difficult to bring himself to lie to Iris. Maybe even more so than it was to himself. "It's been strange, I guess."

"Strange?" She sounded surprised; her voice took on a sharper note, indicating that she was paying close attention.

"Yeah. I guess, honestly... I don't really know." He let his head fall back against the head of the chair. "If things are all right."

"Phoenix..." Iris exhaled audibly. In the back of his mind's eye, Phoenix could draw the picture of her adjusting the phone to her other ear, tucking away a lock of dark hair. "Did something happen?"

Phoenix's lips drew back in the beginnings of an automatic _no, never mind, everything's fine—_but something stopped him again. He let the hand holding the phone drop slightly; suddenly the direct contact of the metal against his skin seemed overwhelmingly cold.

"Yeah."

There was a brief stretch of silence on the other line.

"If there's anything I can help with..."

"No," he said quickly. "It's not like that." He hesitated. "I just..." As he searched for the right words, he suddenly felt very weary, his headache back at full force—choking on his own frustration. "I just don't know what to do."

"It's all right." Her voice was understanding, but cautious, simultaneously trying to process his garbled attempt at an explanation and searching for the right response to give in return. "You always find your way, somehow."

"I guess."

"I mean it. It's true."

He managed a weak smile. It was the same reassurance, the same understanding, that had left him in grateful tears so many times back in his college days. Knowing he could trust her with anything. Knowing that her compassion had been boundless and infinite. The shy warmth of her hand against his as they walked across brick-paved roads together, how she had stood on tiptoes to brush her lips just so against his as they slowly learned to dare to push that much further, together...

_But that had been a lie._

He straightened in his chair.

"It must have been hard," he said, suddenly.

She sounded startled. "Phoenix?"

_All those years of living it. _He had thought he'd put it to rest, fully behind them both, since they had parted ways at the trial. But allowing himself to think about it now—the idea seemed overwhelming, suffocating, in how difficult it must have been—to keep smiling through the deception, over the course of passing weeks and months, facing someone who had no idea what he was putting her through every single day.

It wasn't something Phoenix thought he ever could have endured.

Though he hadn't spoken aloud, there was another soft crackle over the phone. Phoenix didn't ask, but he was suddenly certain that she was no longer in the same room as Pearl.

_Iris..._

"Yes," she answered, quietly. "It was hard."

Phoenix's eyes fell to the floor, where his left foot rested against a stack of paperwork.

"I'm not exactly the greatest at noticing things, am I?"

Iris didn't answer immediately. "It's easy to close your eyes," she murmured, voice distant, and Phoenix had a feeling she was no longer speaking only to him, "when you don't want to see."

"Yeah," Phoenix said. "That sounds... about right."

"But," Iris continued, "I think..."

Phoenix listened.

"I think it's best to have faith," she said, finally. "To trust enough to be honest. Running away from that isn't..." She struggled. It had been awkward, rebuilding in the time since her trial. Neither of them had been willing to risk treading upon the countless eggshells buried amidst their shared memories. Thinking back, Phoenix couldn't remember a time either of them had actually talked about any of it—the six months, or her sister—since then. "It hurts yourself," she concluded. "And it hurts the people you care for most. Trying to run from the truth just leads to more sadness."

Phoenix's fingers tightened, briefly. She would know that better than most anyone.

_And there was another person who told me the same thing, too. A long time ago._

"Thanks." Phoenix leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling above. "You're right."

"I can't tell you what the right thing is to do," Iris said, slowly. "But..."

"No," Phoenix said. "You are right. I think... things will turn out okay."

"You do?" Iris asked.

Phoenix closed his eyes. "No," he admitted. "I have no idea. I don't know how things will be. For all I know, it's going to be a complete disaster. Maybe it already is."

"But," she pressed, "that's not what you believe."

He didn't know how to answer that.

"Iris," he said, instead, "Thanks for hearing me out."

"Phoenix..." She wavered briefly, before she finally seemed to decide against whatever she had planned on saying. "All right. Take care."

"You, too."

A click told him that Iris had ended the call. He followed suit, moving from his chair—it creaked in protest at his sudden motion, but he ignored it, grabbing his jacket from where he had tossed it haphazardly against the bottom of the desk.

He checked his watch. It was barely five minutes past noon. That was good—he had no idea, it struck him, where Edgeworth actually lived beyond the confines of his office. He walked quickly, tugging the jacket's sleeves into place. In the corner of his eye, he could see Maya's head raising from where she sat at her desk, questioning.

"Maya," he said hastily, over his shoulder, "I'm heading out. Can you close the office early for me?"

"Nick?" Maya looked bewildered; she was holding the office phone in one hand. But there was a trace of pensiveness about her frown, as though he had somehow lived down to her unspoken expectations. He pushed the observation to the back of his mind. "Actually, there's a call..."

"I'll be back," he said, opening the door leading outside with one hand. "Don't worry."

Maya shook her head once, but seemed to relent. Despite his best efforts, Phoenix's limbs felt oddly heavy with guilt for leaving her standing there. But something told him that now that he had begun moving, he couldn't afford to slow down until he had reached his destination.

* * *

Phoenix leaned forward in his seat as the taxi inched through traffic. At this rate, he was beginning to think he should have taken the bus. But after his talk with Iris, something seemed to have taken a hold of him, a distant feeling of alarm that he had been shoving away all day. It felt like every minute that trickled away, the more inexorable the situation became.

When the taxi at last pulled up to the plate glass winders of the lower level of the Prosecutor's Office, Phoenix all but threw the fare plus tip at the driver before rushing off. The driver peeled away from the curb in puff of exhaust and burning rubber, seemingly as annoyed with his twitchy passenger as Phoenix had been at the speed of their progress through the city.

Once inside the building, Phoenix bypassed the front desk all together and took an immediate right towards the elevators. He found it hard to resist the urge to peer around the corners like a spy in enemy territory, but if there was one thing he'd learned from his investigations, it was acting like he belonged made people _think_ he belonged.

Upon reaching the steel doors, he pressed the up button, then began rocking back and forth on his heels impatiently. As he reached forward to press the button again—as though that would somehow summon the elevator faster—a man came to stand beside him. Though Phoenix's focus remained trained on the doors, he caught sight of a brown trench coat and a head of ash-blond hair from the corner of his eye.

Shortly thereafter, a horse of an entirely different color joined them in their wait. Phoenix once again gave the newest arrival a cursory glance. Between the black dark jacket with silver streaks and the long hair, the only thing that told Phoenix he hadn't gotten lost in the wrong building was the thick manila folder under his arm, and the familiar nod the blond man gave him when he showed up.

Phoenix began tapping his foot. _Is this thing broken? Maybe I should take the stairs._

The elevator dinged it's arrival and all three shuffled inside, Phoenix on the left and the other two on the right, as if members of law enforcement and defense attorneys were naturally the human equivalent of oil and water, though neither of them even gave him so much as a suspicious glance. He leaned over to press 'twelve', but the number was already lit, to his surprise. _Are they going to see Edgeworth too_? Phoenix hadn't even stopped to consider that Edgeworth would probably be getting reports today—that could make things difficult. _There are other prosecutors on that floor_, he told himself.

"Prosecutor Edgeworth?" the blond finally asked his fellow officer once the elevator started to move, with a quick nod to the files the other was carrying. Phoenix startled, for a moment irrationally wondering if his mind had been read.

"Yeah," the dark-haired man said, looking irritated as he hefted the papers. "I got the call this morning. Just got done typing up and organizing all the reports. What's he going to do, use them as bedtime reading?"

"I've only worked with him once, but he's ridiculously thorough."

"Great." The dark-haired man shifted, mood growing even darker. "I should have known, with what I've heard…"

"You're working on that case with that offshoot of the Cadaverini family, right?"

"That's right," the dark-haired man responded with a toss of his head and a cocky grin. "I've been working on the Italian side, with Interpol. The guy who was handling this end wasn't available, so I got stuck reporting."

"That's strange, it doesn't really seem like Prosecutor Edgeworth's style," the blond man mused. "Usually, he gets assigned those high profile murder cases."

"Guess it's not anyone's style. It's been bouncing around from prosecutor to prosecutor like a hot potato. It must have finally landed in Edgeworth's lap."

"Nope." The blond sighed and wiped his forehead. "I heard he came in at the crack of dawn and asked for any unassigned cases. There have to be at least seven or eight. My department is in chaos."

_What is he thinking…_ The doors abruptly opened, wrenching Phoenix from his thoughts. He pushed past the other two hurriedly, wanting to get to Edgeworth first. Strangely, he didn't hear anyone following him. Instead, there was a bout of raucous laughter; Phoenix glanced back and saw that a third man had approached the elevator and had engaged them in conversation. None of them looked in a particular hurry to get anywhere, to Phoenix's relief.

As Phoenix walked further down the hall, his heart began keeping time to his steps. With a start, he realized that sickening heaviness in his stomach had turned into something else. A sort of nervous anticipation, boiling like a pot of water. It reminded him of his first year practicing, stepping into court knowing he wasn't prepared.

It reminded him of the first time he had confronted Edgeworth.

When he got to the door of Edgeworth's office, he hesitated for a moment, but then quickly swallowed the lump in his throat and knocked. The heavy wood muffled the sound, and for a moment, Phoenix considered just walking in. But it didn't seem right, somehow, to just open the door; it felt like the knob would burn his hand.

He tried again when there was no reaction. There was another pause—long enough that Phoenix wondered if Edgeworth was even in his office, and if not, what his next course of action should be. Then he heard faint footsteps from inside.

The door opened. Phoenix caught a quick glimpse of the room behind Edgeworth's head; his first impression was that a copy machine had vomited all over his desk. The faint sound of classical music escaped from the crack—something bombastic and famous that Phoenix couldn't quite identify.

A spilt second later: "If you're here about the Cadaverini case, Sam Riverton has requested it. You'll have to--" Edgeworth cut off abruptly as he raised his eyes and saw who he was addressing.

Edgeworth's eyes suddenly narrowed, and it was only some instinctive impulse that made Phoenix stick out his foot just in time to catch the door from being slammed in his face. He winced. The door crunched his foot, even with his loafers as protection. _Nice to see you too, Edgeworth_.

"Get out of my office, Wright." Edgeworth's voice was low, with the faintest suggestion of a quaver, like he was trying with all his might to keep control. Phoenix wasn't sure he'd ever seen Edgeworth like this, even at his most avoidant. "I don't have time for this."

"I'm not leaving," Phoenix said. _And technically, I'm not even _in_ your office to begin with._

Edgeworth looked down. Phoenix had no doubt that if looks could kill, his offending leg would be a blackened husk at this point.

"I just want to talk," he tried again.

"We have nothing to discuss," Edgeworth said, still pulling on the door. "And even if we did, you know my number. There was no need for you to come down to the office and create this…disturbance."

"Would you have answered the--"

"_Leave_, Wright."

For a moment, Phoenix was tempted, wondering if it was really worth the energy and—he winced as Edgeworth gave the door another yank—pain to get to the point where they could even have a discussion. If getting inside was this hard, Phoenix didn't even want to imagine how their talk would go. Maybe Edgeworth was right; Phoenix wasn't sure if he would have appreciated Edgeworth suddenly materializing at the Wright and Co Law Offices a few hours ago.

_Maybe if I just let him deal with it by himself, it'll all blow over_. Looking at the furrow between Edgeworth's eyes as he glared, Phoenix almost pulled his foot away. _I did come all the way down here—that's probably enough to show I don't _hate_ him or anything. I can let him cool off a little, then…_ Phoenix's gaze drifted lower.

Edgeworth's arm was shaking so badly he was having trouble keeping a grip on the doorknob.

_No, it has to be now_.

"Look, Edgeworth," he began again. "I can either talk to you through the door while all these people listen, or you can let me in where we'll have some privacy."

Edgeworth head snapped up to meet his eyes, probing as though to gage exactly how serious Phoenix was. For a split second, the prosecutor's slate eyes wavered, darting a quick glance behind Phoenix at the silent people walking slowly about their business. Phoenix inwardly rejoiced.

But Edgeworth's look suddenly grew sharp, the softer slate turning to steel, and Phoenix knew he had lost the gamble.

Before Edgeworth could open his mouth and call his bluff, Phoenix sighed. "Edgeworth, please."

The pressure on his foot lifted. Edgeworth's arm fell limply to his side and he abruptly moved away from the door.

* * *

Phoenix didn't even have time to feel triumphant as he stepped into Edgeworth's office—he was too busy being stunned. The normally—well, the few times he'd seen it before, several years ago—pristine office looked like a miniature tornado had gone through the rest of Prosecutor's Office and finally dispersed on Edgeworth's desk, leaving stacks of papers that nearly dwarfed the ones back at Phoenix's office.

The classical music had since switched to a young woman warbling mournfully in a language Phoenix couldn't understand, her light vibrato undercut by the sudden trilling of the office phone. As soon as Phoenix turned his attention towards it, it went into voicemail.

Phoenix shifted, feeling like an interloper in this chaos, before turning his full attention on Edgeworth. Now that Phoenix was here, everything he wanted to say, all the things he thought he understood seemed too dry and meaningless to voice.

Edgeworth himself seemed caught between two points, pushing himself towards his desk and the temptation of the escape of work, but at the same time he seemed oddly repelled by it—it reminded Phoenix of a magnet forced against its matching point. "So why are you here?" he asked, suddenly, frustration wound tightly in his voice. "Just to disrupt my work?"

Phoenix shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but Edgeworth was still talking, as though intentionally trying to round him off before he had a chance—voice gaining a strange, grating momentum that was painfully familiar to Phoenix—that recalled shades of a gray detention cell and the fall of snow in a winter garden.

"Or was it to laugh at me?"

"Don't be ridiculous--"

"If you want to laugh, go ahead—I'm not stopping you." His back was still turned, and his fingers moved along the documents on the desk, shuffling and re-shuffling them in a practiced, concise flurry of movement. "Who could blame you? I'm waiting—go on, then, laugh--"

"I'm not here to laugh at you," Phoenix said, raising his voice. Edgeworth stopped, letting the stack of papers settle back atop the desk in peace. He turned to face Phoenix at last, and in the full light, the dark creases under his eyes were more pronounced than ever. It seemed a safe assumption that the prosecutor hadn't exactly slept well after leaving Phoenix's apartment. _If he slept at all._

"Then what do you want?" Edgeworth asked, still bristling with hostility. Behind them, Phoenix thought he heard a knock at the door, but the prosecutor gave no indication that he had noticed. "I'm busy, Wright."

"I know." _Like anyone could miss it,_ Phoenix thought, "But I just—wanted to talk."

Edgeworth snorted; his eyes darted back to files. Phoenix was filled with a sudden urge to dart forward and throw the lot of them out of the window. "There's nothing to talk about."

_This is ridiculous._

He very nearly said it out loud, but managed to exhale instead, struggling to keep whatever it was that had gotten his throat so painfully tight—whether it was anger, frustration or something else, he couldn't say—in check. He quickly tried to rephrase. The last thing Phoenix wanted was for to be driven into a shouting match. The knocking outside had increased in volume and persistence didn't make it any easier to concentrate; a flash of irritation crossed Edgeworth's face as he crossed the room to lock the door shut. Phoenix tried again.

"Look, last night..." he swallowed. It was difficult to keep his voice steady. "Look."

Edgeworth's expression remained neutral, even as he folded his arms, waiting. In spite of his own insistence on talking things out, Phoenix found—with vague horror—that his mind had been rendered blank, at a loss for something, anything that could break that unreadable veneer—or even better, he thought, to _fix_ things. Turn them back the way they had been before, laughing quietly and breaking foul-tasting bread between them and talking about old college plays...

_There has to be something._

"It doesn't make a difference to me," Phoenix said. It wasn't right, the words rang slightly off from the center of the weight in his chest—_but I'm trying. _

Edgeworth's eyes flickered, too quickly for Phoenix to get a proper read of it, but at least it was finally _something_. But the brief spark of internal triumph was quickly snuffed when his face went on to settle into an expression that he did know, that made the heaviness in Phoenix's stomach return at full force—a detached, indifferent cool. It was the face of the high prosecutor as he made his way to the bench to go about the impersonal business of dispensing justice. He began to turn once again.

Phoenix's lips seemed to move on their own. "Say something."

Edgeworth paused; his right hand began to raise to his hair, and then it dropped back to his side. His lips pursed as he turned his gaze back onto Phoenix. "Is that it?"

"I don't know," Phoenix said, pressing. "Is it?"

"If that's all, then yes."

By all rights, that should have been enough. He didn't have anything else to say, no matter how the back of his mind raced. He had no reason to not nod, wave goodbye, and turn and walk back through the door from where he came, rattling knob and all. As Phoenix's eyes flitted to consider his potential escape, though, the noise cut off abruptly. The man from the elevator must have finally given up.

The air around them felt strangely hollow, reinforced with their isolation.

_It's not enough. _

"Last night--" he began again, raising one entreating hand.

There was a sardonic bite to Edgeworth's voice. "I thought it didn't make a difference to you?"

Annoyance tempered with sharp frustration jolted through him like a shock; it colored an edge to his voice and prickled beneath his skin. He had to stop himself from stepping forward. "Will you stop that?"

"That was what you said."

"I know, but--"

The prosecutor's eyes had narrowed and at his side his hand tightened briefly on the edge of his desk; the indifferent mask was beginning to chip. "Don't say it if you don't mean it—"

"Stop cutting me off!" Phoenix said. "What was that, last night?"

A brief pause. Edgeworth's eyes moved to the side, forcibly relaxing his knuckles, and Phoenix realized vividly how very, very much he was coming to hate that gesture.

"It wasn't anything."

"What do you mean?"

"It was nothing. Neither of us were thinking straight." Edgeworth paused again, visibly searching for his words, the right details that would prove his point beyond a reasonable doubt. "I believe you were on your fifth or sixth beer. It was an unpleasant accident I'd rather forget."

_Actually, I only had four and a half, including what I had at the restaurant_. This didn't seem like the time to get into semantics.

A moment passed, the heavy silence tempered with the sound of violins—oddly strained to Phoenix's ears—in the background. Phoenix waited, but Edgeworth didn't seem to have anything more to say. His gaze was still firmly planted on the wall where his old prosecutor's suit, as gaudy as Phoenix remembered, hung framed.

"...is that it?" Phoenix asked, finally.

Edgeworth didn't answer immediately; his eyes had become clouded with internal thought.

He tried again. "Is that really..."

"That's it," Edgeworth said, suddenly. "That settles things, don't you agree? Now if you'd excuse yourself from my office, I have work to attend to."

Phoenix didn't move. He wasn't sure if he could even if he wanted to—it felt as though weights had been attached to his ankles, nailing him in place—in this office with the classical music still whirling in the background, pale sunlight filtered through pink curtains, and the face of a prosecutor strained with years of stress and the difficulty of years past—_ maybe just one night_—across from him.

It hit him.

_He's trying to fix things, too._

Edgeworth spoke again. "Did you hear me?"

"Edgeworth--"

"Unlike you, I don't have time to lounge around and talk about nothing, Wright."

_Nothing?_ The word felt strange. Somehow wrong, like a puzzle piece that didn't fit, no matter how much he or anyone else tried to jam it into place by force. The memory of its echo rose to the forefront of his mind—_nothing—_barelya month past, as a guilty man had bleated it at Edgeworth himself in hopes that it would somehow magically erase everything that had happened and any consequences that followed.

"Even if that was true--"

"Even if it was true," Edgeworth said, suddenly, "I think you made things perfectly clear last night."

Phoenix's mouth fell shut. Whatever he had planned to say had turned to cold ash on his lips.

Edgeworth grimaced, still not meeting his gaze. The fingers of his right hand pressed self-consciously into the opposite sleeve.

"I'm sorry," Phoenix said quietly.

Edgeworth shrugged, irritably; he quickly raised a hand to adjust his cravat, eyes moving to the view of the city outside the adjacent window. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

"Knock it off."

_He's still trying. But..._

Phoenix felt his shoulders slump forward. His throat was hoarse; he couldn't tell if it was either because of the outburst of yelling or because he suddenly felt more exhausted than he could remember ever feeling in any of the recent years, probably since Hazakura. _I'm not being honest, either. _

_It was hard,_ Iris had said. She'd smiled at him after supper at Hazakura Temple, taking his plate from him with the polite consideration of a stranger. _Hm? No, I don't think we've ever met._

_It was hard._

"I'm scared, too."

Edgeworth flinched.

"I don't know what it was. That's why I keep asking. It didn't feel like 'nothing' to me," Phoenix admitted. "I couldn't focus all day."

"Then work it out on your own time." Despite the words, Edgeworth's voice was a note softer, almost half-hearted. Like Phoenix, he seemed drained of all energy.

"I am," Phoenix said. "Or, I'm trying to."

Edgeworth sighed—his entire frame seemed to deflate, all prior defensiveness visibly withering. His tone was defeated. "What is it you want me to say?"

The question caught Phoenix off guard. _I don't know. I didn't... think about it like that._ It was tempting to fall back onto script, to assert that he didn't _want _anything—_but it would be a lie that leads us right back into the same circle._

"I don't know," Phoenix murmured. "The truth, I guess."

_After all, you were the one who taught so many people how to face the truth._

Edgeworth met his eyes full on, abruptly; his stare was piercing. _You don't know what you're asking._

"It was strange," Phoenix said, lost in his own thoughts. "I didn't... I mean, I don't know how to put this. I don't even know what 'this' is." _And it's driving me crazy. _"But when it comes down to it, I can't convince myself that I wasn't..." He shook his head. "I guess what I'm trying to say is—I was there, too."

Edgeworth stared.

"Wright," he said, heavily, and his gaze fell away from Phoenix's. "I can't."

_Edgeworth..._

It seemed impossibly distant—hazy and filtered with the static he normally associated with recollections years past, even though in reality it had been less than a full day—but the memory stirred of Edgeworth's silent, desperate attempt to communicate as they had stared at each other in the apartment. His own thoughts had been in such disarray at the time that it had been utterly lost on him.

Phoenix swallowed. His throat was dry.

He thought he understood now.

"Ha ha," he said, weakly, but he felt strangely relieved, as though some kind of invisible chain had finally been broken with both of their admissions. It left him suddenly weak and slightly dizzy—but relieved nonetheless. He half-sat, half-collapsed on the office couch, running his hand through his hair. "I guess I can't expect you to if I can't, either."

Edgeworth looked at him. There was muted emotion visible beneath his gaze.

"I enjoyed them," he said. "The dinners. With you, they were..." He trailed off.

_Something you didn't want to lose._

"Yeah," said Phoenix. "I did, too. Highlight of my week, really." Although his tone was wry, it hit him that it was the truth.

He didn't so much see but feel the movement next to him, the weight sinking in on the cushion next to his, as Edgeworth sat beside him, hunched over with elbows propped against his knees. He gazed in silence at the floor.

_And I don't want to lose them, either. _

"You can reserve again for next week, right?"

Edgeworth's head lifted, slightly.

"Though maybe we ought to branch out a little," Phoenix spoke on, "I've been hearing some good things about that Russian place in the area, too. Or the Italian around the corner, whatever works best. That—" --his pronunciation failed him once again-- "--place... has good food, but you know, eating German week in and week out... you'd get sick of it eventually. Or, I would."

"That doesn't surprise me when it comes from someone who orders the same thing every week," Edgeworth murmured.

"I'm just saying," Phoenix said.

A short curtain of silence fell between them. Edgeworth folded his hands in front of himself.

"I'll make it," Edgeworth said, abruptly. "The reservation." There was a slight up tilt to his voice at the end, like a question—an unspoken _are you sure_ barely concealed beneath.

"Great," Phoenix said. _I'm sure._ "And some other time..."

Edgeworth's brow furrowed. "Some other time?"

"We could—I don't know, try something else." The sentence was stiff and awkward in his mouth, but he forced it out regardless. "Maybe if there's a decent play showing in the area, or something." _The Empty Room, if the universe is feeling particularly ironic._

"I can make time for dinner," Edgeworth said, after a moment. There was quiet disbelief filtered between each syllable. "I can't... guarantee enough time for a play." He hesitated; Phoenix could see the same internal battle, mirroring his own, playing out across the prosecutor's features. "But if it comes up... I'll try."

"Good," Phoenix said, a little quickly. "Well... can I leave the restaurant up to you, anyway?"

"Somewhere different?"

"Yeah, if you can manage."

"I assure you, Wright," Edgeworth said, "I can manage."

"Right." Hearing the familiar wryness in his voice was oddly relieving. "Give me a call. Let me know."

"I suppose I don't have a choice."

_I guess it can't be the way it was before._

They settled into silence once more.

_But maybe things will somehow still be all right, anyway._

And it struck Phoenix that, if he was being honest with himself, he was still scared. In a lot of ways. He had no idea what he was doing, and he had a feeling that he could safely say the same for the man sitting next to him.

Edgeworth's eyes were still thick with uncertainty and the traces of emotion they had both failed to capture properly in words. But looking at him, shoulder pressed lightly against his, it was difficult not to believe that somehow things really would be all right. It had always been that way, Phoenix thought. Whether he was facing him, or walking at his side, or laughing together as children, or chasing after the visage of his photograph in an old newspaper article.

It had always been that way.


	5. Chapter 5

Struggling Against Gravity

Chapter Five

In stark contrast to the Prosecutor's Office, in all of its towering glory, Phoenix liked to think that the sight of Wright and Co. was built to inspire a feeling of reassurance. Whether or not that actually coincided with the reality of his practice was a judgment he preferred to keep a safe, professional distance from. Either way, the incoming sight of the patterned brick and worn door felt welcoming. It also probably helped that his movements no longer ached with tension thick and distracting enough to cloud his vision as he walked.

The glow of the office light was still visible from the window. That didn't necessarily mean Maya was still there—it wasn't uncommon for her to forget to turn off something or another as they closed down for the night, usually at the expense of the monthly electric bill. But, Phoenix noted, with the lingering, acrid taste of guilt beginning to creep back into his mouth, he found he couldn't exactly blame her if she really had decided to leave.

He apologized to Maya internally, hoping that hastening his usual rush up the stairs would at least be a symbolic start towards making it up to her. He had to twist rather awkwardly to avoid colliding into someone heading the opposite direction, earning him an irate glare, but he ignored it. The door leading into the offices was unlocked, and Phoenix felt his shoulders set with confirmation; although Maya occasionally forgot to take care of lights or the television when heading out, he couldn't remember a single instance where she hadn't at least made sure the door was locked behind her.

Pushing it open, he peered around the entranceway. "Hey," he called—not quite a whisper and not quite normal speech. "I'm back."

He blinked when he received no reply and leaned further in; the receptionist's desk was empty. A glance upwards told him that the door to the office proper was slightly ajar, and he was fairly sure he could pick up the faint sound of the television filtering through it. He kept walking.

"Maya, are you there?"

He gave a start when he stepped through. To his surprise, the chaos he'd left the office in as he'd rushed to leave was rearranged into relatively neatly stacked piles—not exactly filed, but probably a lot easier to manage. There was the scent of pine in the air; he noticed that the filing cabinets and the windows had been freshly wiped of dust and grime. Even the surface of the television screen was set with a sparkle Phoenix couldn't recall seeing in the past several months.

Maya was sitting in his chair, taking meticulous—meticulous no doubt referring to the samurai doodles in the margins—notes. Her head shot up first at Phoenix's entrance, followed by the rest of her body, making her hair beads bounce almost comically off her shoulders.

"Nick!" she exclaimed. "You're okay!"

_Well, it's not like I was carried out of here on a stretcher..._

Despite that, he managed a weak smile that he hoped was good enough for affirmation.

Maya made her way out from behind the desk; she hung back briefly, trying to get a better read of his demeanor—whatever she saw seemed to reassure her, as she quickly went on to return the grin and pull him into a quick hug. "It looks like you're feeling better," she said, peering up at him and giving the side of his face a chiding tap. "Thank goodness. I'm really relieved."

_Relieved?_

"Yeah," Maya nodded, drawing back. "You should have seen your face when you charged out of here." She formed circles around her eyes with her thumb and forefinger for emphasis. _So I looked like an owl?_ Phoenix mused. "It must be what all of those guilty witnesses see flash before their eyes right before you tighten the noose around their necks, huh?"

_You are definitely asking the wrong person that question._

"Though," Maya said, on further consideration, "I guess it _was_ kind of cool, in a scary sort of way. Just..." She hunched her shoulders, considering. "Doesn't really fit you at all, you know? When you think 'Phoenix Wright', _cool_ just isn't the first word that comes to mind. I'd rank it about... hm, seventeen, actually."

_Dare I ask what the first sixteen are?_

"And 'scary' is probably around twenty-one," Maya supplemented.

_What's scary is the amount of thought you seem to have put into this._ But the smile on his face had broadened. He looked at his assistant fondly.

"Sorry," he said. He meant it.

"Hey, as long as you made it back, that's what matters," Maya chirped. She turned her head, gesturing towards the desk. "A lot of calls came in when you were gone, so I put down all the important details--" she pointed to the pad of paper she had been scribbling on, "there, so you should take a look when you get a chance, okay? I think a couple of them sound really promising."

Phoenix nodded absently. He began pulling his jacket off, but as the first sleeve came off, the rush of startlingly cool air against his arm made him give it second thought. It was late—late by his measure, anyway—and given the emotional rollercoaster this day had been, he had severe doubts about his ability to concentrate on paperwork anyway. There was a familiar mental fog lying in wait at the borders of his mind, precluding any attempts at being productive.

"I'll take a look tomorrow," he promised. "Why don't we close up for today?"

"Pffft," Maya chided, but she didn't look particularly surprised. "You're so lazy, Nick."

"I know, I know."_We'll have to really hit these files hard tomorrow, I guess..._

Even as limited as Maya's attention span was, and Phoenix's own lack of motivation, closing the office was by now such a practiced ritual between the two of them that they usually managed to take care of it within the span of twenty minutes. Phoenix briefly settled in at his desk to give the paperwork an obligatory final shuffle, skimming the notes Maya had laid out for him. None of them really caught his attention. The note about the murder case bulleted with the notations _stuffed__duck, tea kettle,_ _bookcase _gave him brief pause, but not in any way that constituted interest in further involving himself with _that_ mess. He reached up for where he kept the address roll.

His eyes quirked upwards when his hand hit empty desk. The rolodex was absent from its usual position, re-stationed next to the telephone and skewed diagonally to face the desk occupant.

_Skye, Lana_ was listed on the top card, followed by a row ten numbers, its date of entry four years prior.

"Maya," Phoenix started, swiveling in her chair to face her, but she had returned to her station outside, taking care of whatever she usually did there. He caught the faint sound of her familiar hum, oddly in tune with the snapping of disappearing lights.

Phoenix tossed a few papers haphazardly into his briefcase before clicking it shut, and moved to join her when he heard the bustle come to a stop, replaced by an impatient tapping of sandals against floor. As he moved out—Maya pressed close on his heels—he remembered suddenly that he didn't have the key. Maya rolled her eyes, pushed him aside, and locked the door herself.

As they went down the stairs, Phoenix opened his mouth to ask about any particular calls she might have made while he was out—but Maya seemed to have something else in mind.

"So..." Maya hesitated. "You went to see Mr. Edgeworth, right?"

"Yeah." They made their way outside and past the parking lot. "You really were worried, huh?"

"Well..." Maya said, slowly. She came to a stop as her feet hit sidewalk, turning back to face him. Her head flitted from side to side, giving the distinct impression that she was rolling her intended words around on her tongue. "It's just that... I was thinking about what Mr. Edgeworth was talking about last night."

"Last night?" Phoenix's brow furrowed. _What is she talking about?_

"Yes, _last night_. Geez, where were _you_, Nick?" Maya rolled her eyes, but was fortunately willing to set aside her teasing long enough to elaborate. "You know, with Lana, and the Prosecutor's Office, remember? About how things had been really rough over there lately..."

"Oh, yeah." Phoenix said, vaguely. It was surreal to think about it as _last night_—if it had seemed distant when he had first stepped into Edgeworth's office, it felt a million years away now. "Hm."

Maya folded her hands behind her back. "Just... it's really true, isn't it? When you stop and think about it..." She shook her head, and began counting off on her fingers. "That is, their top prosecutor—Prosecutor von Karma, I mean—you went and proved that he was a fraud and a murderer on top of that! And then the same thing with the chief of police, just a few months later..."

_Hey, don't say it like it's _my_ fault! They really _were_ murderers..._

"And then the other Prosecutor von Karma was only there for a year. And the year after that, what with Mr. Armando..." Maya bit her lip. Her hair slid over her eyes, half-framing them in shadow.

_I hadn't thought about it that way,_ Phoenix had to admit. It did seem pretty grim in context. And as mixed as his emotions still were about the series of events surrounding the last incident, he imagined it must be much harder on Maya, even now.

Maya took a deep breath, collecting herself. "I guess what I mean is... Mr. Edgeworth really must be going through a hard time. So, I think it'd be even worse for him if you two had another falling out. He looks up to you an awful lot, Nick." She flashed him a knowing grin. "You can't be in a rivalry by yourself, after all!"

_A rivalry, huh...?_

"So," she repeated, head tilting slightly with a smile, "I'm really glad you made up from... whatever."

"I am, too." _I really am._

Maya spun on her heels, as though shaking off any troubles that could have ever been weighing on her shoulders as easily as it was to discard a shawl. "All right! Now that that's settled, why don't we celebrate?"

_Celebrate what, exactly!?_

"I already ate up my leftovers, so I think I'm long overdue for a helping of burgers!" She winked at him, balancing the palms of both hands against the crown of her head. It was as much of a private, comfortably worn joke as an actual request.

_The more things change,_ Phoenix thought, but he couldn't pretend he wasn't grateful. No matter what else seemed to turn upside down in his world, Maya would always be Maya.

* * *

Phoenix had always disliked the smog of the train station. The noise and the crowds never did much for him, either, dotted every few feet with the quiet rumblings of meetings and partings; tangles of fingers and other limbs crashing into each or being forcefully wrenched apart. With as uncharitable his feelings towards the whole of it, it was slightly disheartening to find himself here so often, and he found that he only wound up resenting it more with each subsequent visit.

"Pretty fast five days, huh?" Maya asked, adjusting the strap of her carry-on bag. "They really need me back there, though."

_Has it really been five days?_ It seemed off no matter how he considered it. He wasn't sure if it actually felt like Maya had only been here for five minutes or for five years—but either way, he thought, looking at the waiting train, it would have been nice to have five more.

"It feels like you just got here," he said, feeling for all the world like a petulant child.

"I know. You can't do a thing if I'm not here to keep an eye on you." She gave her usual smile, but Phoenix thought—maybe he was projecting—he could see a hint of something bittersweet along its edges. "Next time I get a couple of days free, I'll be right back."

"Sure thing."

"I'll give you a call when I make it there," Maya said, as the attendants loaded her things—mostly newly purchased Steel Samurai merchandise, yet another month-long deficit she had insisted she needed to compensate for, onto the train. "Just so you don't lose any sleep worrying about me, Nick."

_What do you think I am, a mother hen?_

"I'll bring Pearly next time, okay?" Maya promised. "She's really been wanting to see you again, too."

"She's not the only one," Phoenix said.

Maya bent a little closer, cupping her hands in a parody of a conspiratory whisper. "Though, I'd better give you fair warning. it's like she's taller and taller every time I turn around. You're going to have to help me chase off all of her suitors, Nick—they're going to be coming in packs..."

He must have betrayed the odd stab of discomfort at that notion somehow, because Maya let loose a delighted sort of cackle as she straightened into her normal posture.

He felt a little stupid having to ask, as though he couldn't function without knowing. "So do you know how long this time..."

"Hmm," Maya said, thinking, chin tilted upwards toward the sky. "It's hard to say. It depends."

_Depends on what, exactly?_

But she didn't seem particularly inclined to fill him in on the details. Phoenix handed over her last bag, and she balanced on the edge of the platform a moment longer before stepping up to board herself. The door shut behind her, and Phoenix was about to start walking back when her face suddenly appeared in one of the windows near him. She stuck her tongue out.

The whistle blew, signaling its time for departure. He watched her wave at him from the window until he lost view of her face, and then the entire train as it sped towards it destination.

* * *

So he was here now by himself.

He hadn't bothered to open the office this morning at all; rather, after seeing Maya off, he'd sulked rather impressively back to his apartment where he spent most of the day dividing his attention between the blank expanse of the ceiling, the blank expanse of the wall, and the blank expanse of the television screen. He and Maya had managed to clean up the last of the paperwork the night before it was time for her to leave, and he didn't feel particularly enthused about dealing with a new client, especially with her absence. It always took him at least a few days to shake off that particular fog, weighing heavily around his shoulders, in the immediate aftermath of her departure.

_Charged with overseeing a village, huh._

That was jarring to think about. No matter how he tried, he couldn't quite get his ideas of 'Maya' and 'village overseer'--basically a softer version of 'government official', really—to line up. It was a little easier to scorn the reason his apartment was barren of her cheerful presence if it was an inherent paradox.

But even when Maya was with him, he had to admit that there were discrepancies, small cracks in the usual picture of Wright and Co.'s operations, even if he tried to turn a blind eye. Especially in the last few days when they had actually managed to set about working at a relatively steady pace, the sound of Maya's cellphone firing, and the subsequent sound of her voice talking about things like 'disciplinary action' or 'training regiment' or even 'budget balancing', became more and more common. Even more disconcerting was the low, somewhat weary edge with which she spoke, that he was accustomed to hearing from Edgeworth—but never from his assistant. Whatever Maya had to say about the workings of Kurain and the charming quirks of the acolytes that trained there, he was hard-pressed to find a way to sell himself on the idea that she was enjoying her newfound duties.

_But I guess it wasn't really her choice. Kind of harsh, being born into such huge responsibility—I guess Edgeworth would understand what that's like a little bit better than I would. I don't imagine von Karma gave him much free choice in his career, either._

_But we all had our reasons for becoming the things we did..._

He tilted his attorney's badge, cool and light between his fingers, so that the sheen of the light hit it at that certain angle that highlighted the symbol of the court engraved into the center.

The truth was that he had never really thought about it. It had seemed like the obvious decision to make at the time—after months of unanswered letters and phone calls, the question of whether entering law was something he_wanted_ to do was irrelevant.

_He always did have a strange habit of disappearing from my watch._

Phoenix knew better than to put much stock in the reliability of his own memory. Varying case details swept in and out easily, usually, he figured, for the benefit of his own sanity—but there were the moments and images that stayed with him, even through the mundane passage of years and decades. Maya's tear-stained face and outstretched hands, not quite willing to touch Mia's body. Dollie's fury on the witness stand as she was exposed as a killer. And a single empty desk from fourth grade, followed by another, identical in all the ways that mattered—this time left at the prosecutor's office, leaving him with a hollow emptiness in his chest and a meaningless chunk of metal decorating his lapel.

The same feeling from back then resurfaced like a flood if he considered the possibility that Edgeworth might eventually take off again. To Europe, or anywhere else.

_That won't happen._

With a sense of distant surprise, Phoenix realized it was the assumption that Edgeworth would be back that had allowed him to smile and wave as Edgeworth left shortly after the Engarde trial, and then again after Diego Armando had been tried and sentenced.

But telling himself 'he'd be back someday' didn't do anything to assauge the unease that came with the hypothetical now.

He wasn't sure when it had stopped being enough. Maybe after they had talked in his office—or a month earlier when Edgeworth had met his eyes and said 'yes' to a friendly dinner...

Phoenix closed his fingers around his badge. The beer stain next to the chair from last week stared up him—his attempts at scrubbing it away had proven fruitless.

_We really have been through a lot together... saving Maya and Iris, exposing Gant... but it's always worked out because we were both there, hasn't it? He knows that, too._

Even yelling at each other in an office, Phoenix noted. That had been new.

_But even that that had turned out all right. Because we were both..._

Phoenix blinked, abruptly jerked out of his own stream of consciousness. It was Tuesday.

_He still hasn't called._

His watch, reliable as always, informed him that it was slightly past noon.

_It can't be that hard to find a decent restaurant, can it? _

Then again, it was Edgeworth.

There was a sudden icy stab Phoenix felt all the way to the blackest depths of his bank account and possibly beyond.

_Should I call him? I could name about five good, _affordable _places off the top of my head..._

Then again, it was Edgeworth.

Financial anxiety aside, a strange tightness rose in his throat; he shifted position awkwardly in the chair in a vague attempt to eliminate it. That still wasn't any reason for the other man not to call. When Edgeworth promised something, he always put his utmost effort to keep his word. Even back when Phoenix had asked him to defend Iris, when it had been obvious he felt uncomfortable doing it.

The memory suddenly gave way to another—the way Edgeworth had affixed his eyes to the gravy-stained scroll, so pale he'd almost gleamed luminescent in the cave's scanty light. And then afterwards when they had lit, this time with panic, as Phoenix faced him in the courtyard, before nearly stumbling in his haste to make a retreat towards the men combing the place for clues.

It was a completely different story when Edgeworth was afraid.

_But why would he..._

The same reason he had taken over half an hour to rejoin Phoenix outside of the courthouse the first time they had eaten together.

Phoenix's head fell back over the chair's headrest, staring at the ceiling.

_Same old, prideful Edgeworth._

And with that—distantly, and almost comically, he realized he must have seen it coming—the familiar hitch in the back of his mind, like the spark from a malfunctioning wire, told him he wasn't being completely honest with himself, whether or not he chose to admit it from there.

_It was really hard for you, wasn't it._

_How long has it been this way?_

Edgeworth had turned his head to the side, looking at him with a smile that was mingled with the unmistakable traces of a faint grimace.

_Partner._

The badge fell from his hands, skittering dangerously against the chair's armrest for a few seconds before slipping off to bounce twice along the floor. Phoenix ignored it; he was too busy leaning forward to dig through the pockets of his discarded jacket for his cell phone.

When his search turned up nothing but lint—he must have left it in his room—he stood and headed for the landline anchored in the kitchen. The feel of the cool plastic against his skin was oddly jarring.

_What am I doing? _

Thursday was still a few days off. He was being downright paranoid, not to mention presumptuous. He stared down at the phone, resting benignly in the palm of his hand.

_You'd think that fifteen years of running would be enough. For both of us._

He dialed.

The phone rang several times, and Phoenix wondered, tongue wedged nervously between his teeth and knuckles rapping against the counter, if this would be the day he would finally hear Edgeworth's voice mail message for the first time. Then there was a click on the other line that told him that wouldn't be the case, but when the other man's voice filtered through, he seemed to be completing a rather harsh thought aimed at someone else entirely. "...bother coming _in_ if you're not going to work—"

In spite of the agitated edge to his voice, hearing the prosecutor's voice against his ear seemed to solidify the ground beneath Phoenix's feet, just a little. "Edgeworth?"

In answer to his prompt, the sound abruptly became muffled, enough so that although Phoenix could hear more conversation on the other end, he couldn't make out what was actually being said. A moment later Edgeworth spoke more clearly—presumably he had dismissed whatever company he had been entertaining and stopped blocking the receiver with his hand. He didn't bother with any greetings.

"What is it, Wright?"

"Hey," Phoenix said. "Sorry. I was just... checking in."

Pause. "...Checking in?"

"Yeah. You know, seeing how the, uh, arrangements were..." He honestly had planned on just asking about his availability after dinner on Thursday, but heard—and felt—himself fall short of actually doing so; tumbling into a familiar abyss of hesitant, searching silence.

"Actually..." He fidgeted with the edge of his collar with an index finger, frowning. "I wanted to ask if you were free."

"I don't know yet, Wright," Edgeworth said, slowly—testing invisible waters with each syllable. "I'll let you know on Wednesday how things stand. This week has been..."

"No, no," Phoenix hastily clarified. "I meant now. Do you have some free time now?"

There was a short pause, then, somewhat incredulous: "What?"

"Do you have some free time now?" he repeated.

When Edgeworth spoke, he sounded fairly convinced that Phoenix had been struck with some kind of mental illness. "Wright, you can't seriously expect me to just drop what I'm doing and..."

"Sorry," Phoenix said quickly. He suddenly found himself wishing he had paid more attention when covering improvisation skills in his old theatre classes. "I didn't mean—now, as in _now_. Today. At some point. In the near future." He hesitated. "If you're free."

Pause.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

Pause.

"I suppose I can wrap things up for the day within about three hours." Cautiously: "...Where did you want to go?"

Yet another snag. "I, uh—actually didn't have anything specific in mind." For once, though, it was fairly easy to come up with a proposal on the spot. "What about dinner?"

Pause.

"I haven't made any reservations for today," Edgeworth answered shortly.

_We don't need a reservation to find a place to eat,_ Phoenix thought, but something about the slightly flattened tone of Edgeworth's voice told him that for some reason, the prosecutor wasn't particularly taken by the idea of dinner tonight.

_Then what is he interested in?_

"What about a play?" he suggested. "Like we talked about?"

"No, that's not going to work, either." Edgeworth spoke with such certainty as to be suspect. "There's nothing worthwhile showing today that's not already sold out."

_Is he _trying_ to be difficult?_ On further consideration, Phoenix revised that thought. _Does he ever _not_try to be difficult?_

"All right... then are there any places you like going? I don't know..." Phoenix floundered. "Things you like to do?"

"I..." Edgeworth trailed off, voice descending into an odd hum. It was like hearing the other man's puzzled concentration made manifest.

Phoenix bit back the sudden urge to laugh at the sheer absurdity of their predicament. _Do you do _anything _for fun?_ He paused, then rubbed his temples with a grimace. _Actually, come to think of it, do I?_

Not wanting to dwell on his own lack of a social life more than he had to, he noticed that Edgeworth's contemplative hum had fallen into an odd, sullen sort of silence. "Edgeworth?"

"Sometimes," Edgeworth offered, tentative, "I golf."

For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

"I haven't bowled in years," Phoenix noted, offhand.

"I've never bowled," Edgeworth said, voice smart with annoyance, "At all."

_You don't sound particularly eager to start, either._ Phoenix stuck a finger through his blinds for a better glance outside, and nearly jerked them back as the patch of sunlight burst through. If he angled his head the right way, he could make out the shape of Wright and Co. Offices, though it was still mostly obscured by the Gatewater Hotel—beyond the nearby park, dotted with children flying kites and a few couples pressed against each other on the benches.

"Look, Wright," Edgeworth finally said, voice stern, "I appreciate the offer, but I can't afford to waste any more time chattering about nothing on the phone when I have cases to deal with." He hesitated, then added, somewhat softer, "But on Thursday..."

"The park," Phoenix blurted out, cutting him off.

Edgeworth was startled. "What?"

"Park. The park. Meet me there." The words came out haltingly; he was only half-aware of them before they came spilling haphazardly from his mouth. But he had a feeling that if he stopped to think, he probably wouldn't manage to get them out all.

There was a short stretch of silence on the other end.

"Which park?" Edgeworth asked, with the slow, slightly disbelieving lull that Phoenix tended to associate with the prosecutor's interactions with Detective Gumshoe.

_Which park? _Phoenix registered, simultaneous with _Detective Gumshoe._

"Uh," a momentary fumble, then, nearly incoherent: "Exposé."

"...Exposé?" Edgeworth repeated. It was obviously unfamiliar to him.

"Yeah. The place with... you know, where Maggey got into trouble that one time." He realized two seconds too late that Edgeworth had been missing when that particular incident had taken place, but Edgeworth was already ahead of him.

"Wright, I haven't a clue what you're--"

Phoenix grit his teeth. "I'll see you there, okay?"

He hung up the phone. The receiver came very close to sliding right back off its hook; he reached back a second time to steady it before it could fall.

_I have absolutely no idea what just happened._

It occurred to him that he could have just invited him here if it was for the park. That probably would have been several times more convenient. But he lacked both the nerve and the energy to call Edgeworth back after that spectacular display. _Crash and burn would probably be a more accurate way to put it._

The phone safely secured, he exhaled deeply. There was no point in dwelling on it now that it was done.

He just had to find a way to kill a couple of hours.

* * *

The evening was cooler than Phoenix thought it would be. _It's still August,_ he thought. _Still summer. You'd think the chill could at least hold off for another month or two..._

He felt a little stupid—he hadn't considered the size of the park, and had no real arranged meeting spot with Edgeworth, so he found himself wandering aimlessly for the first several minutes, eventually lingering in the general area near the parking lot. He was tempted to sit down on one of the benches—_but then he might have a harder time seeing me..._

He blew into his hands for warmth, casting another glance at his surroundings. The grass was browning in several places from neglect; weeds dotted the ground; he could hear the sound of birds—and occasionally children, he noted, as a boy managed to slip off the branch of a nearby tree and began screaming for his mother—as evening approached.

He checked his watch again, for what felt like the tenth time in the span of ten minutes. It was past seven, and no still no sign of Edgeworth.

It crashed around him, the insanity of all of this, that he had been valiantly holding at bay through the span of a phone call and two hours of watching thought-numbing television specials.

_What am I doing? Of course he's not showing up. I probably wouldn't, either._

All he'd managed to do was make an idiot of himself and, by all indications, convince Edgeworth that he had lost his mind.

Dazed and feeling slightly sick with epiphany, Phoenix dug in his pockets for his wallet. _Do I have money for a return taxi?_

He didn't have time to find out; the moment his fingers came in contact with coarse leather, a flash of pink drew his attention from the corner of his eye—his head jerked up so quickly that his bones gave an uncomfortable pop in protest. The pink was complemented by a head of greyish hair and the unmistakable sight of ruffles tucked at the base of a man's neck.

Edgeworth's eyes met his, and the prosecutor began to change direction. Then he seemed to pivot strangely, as though catching his own action a second too late. Phoenix didn't give him a chance to decide if he'd rather stay or turn and leave—he closed the distance between them as quickly as he could without breaking into an outright sprint.

As he approached, his arm began to raise automatically—_what, to shake his hand?_--and he did his best to cover up the momentary, and rather embarrassing, disorientation that followed by turning the motion into a short, awkward wave. Thankfully, Edgeworth didn't seem to notice.

"Hey," Phoenix greeted.

Edgeworth nodded curtly. Both of his hands were tucked into the pockets of his trenchcoat.

"Where did you park?"

"I didn't," he answered. "As it turns out, my apartment isn't far from here." In spite of the apparent convenience, he ended the statement on a sour note and a pointed glare; Phoenix had to keep himself from visibly wincing.

"Well," he said, lamely, "I knew that."

Edgeworth shot him a shrewd look that told him in no uncertain terms that they were both in on his obvious—and rather pathetic—lie.

"By the way, Maya went home," Phoenix said, flushing briefly and fumbling for a change the subject. "Back to Kurain. The village needs her there most of the time, so..."

"Yes," Edgeworth said. "I assumed."

"She wanted to see you again before she took off," Phoenix continued, "But the way things went..."

Edgeworth shifted somewhat uncomfortably; neither of them had to verbally acknowledge that the incompatibility of their schedules was laid mostly of the feet of his frenzy of case work after the incident last Thursday.

Phoenix mentally hit himself. That was an effective way to kill any chance at natural conversation.

They stood there, faces angled conspicuously downwards, towards each others' shoes. In the background, Phoenix could hear the shrill laughter of a young boy chasing his dog, clutching a frisbee high above his head.

_Now what?_

He was pretty sure the thing that was usually done in parks was walking—an activity that Phoenix felt reasonably confident in his ability to perform. He chose a random direction, and then stopped to glance over his shoulder. Edgeworth was hanging back, expression forcibly neutral—but the subtle line of tension against his jaw gave him away. When their eyes met, and Phoenix gave a small jerk of his head to the side, Edgeworth moved forward alongside him.

_If you're asking me what I have planned, I don't know, either._

He found himself wondering again why Edgeworth had turned down dinner; now that it wasn't tense with the anxiety of waiting, his own stomach gave a rather displeased rumble. At the park by his office, there were at least hot dog stands dotting the area, but a few minutes of searching only turned up a rather shabby place that offered overpriced beverages. It looked like the kind of station Phoenix remembered his high school offering to the patrons of its football games.

Phoenix turned his head, making a vague gesture towards the stand. "You want anything?"

Edgeworth shook his head. "I'm fine."

He felt an irrational clench of irritation. _Would it kill him to just humor me, for once?_

"Well," he said. "I do. I'll be back in a second."

The vendor was a bleary-eyed teenager, and based on what he had already seen Phoenix could only guess at what kind of customers he was used to entertaining at this place. He hoped he presented a comparatively ordinary figure in contrast.

"Have anything warm?"

The vendor gave a quick glance to the menu posted above him. "Coffee," he said. "And cocoa. Apple cider. Packets, not homemade."

"That's fine," Phoenix said. "Two coffees."

As he totaled up the bill, Phoenix counted out the change in his wallet. It turned out that the output was even more depressing than he'd originally feared--and no amount of scraping at the bottom of the leather pouch managed to procure any more coins.

_Urk_.

"Make that one coffee and one water," he amended, face burning. The vendor shrugged and switched the order with a deftness that suggested to Phoenix that a customer deciding against accepting a proffered hot drink was probably to his advantage.

A beverage in each hand, he returned to where Edgeworth was waiting. He shifted his hold on the bottle of water, and held out the aluminum can towards him.

"Here."

"Wright--" Edgeworth began.

"Don't worry about it," Phoenix said, shortly. "My treat."

"Wright, I said..."

Phoenix tilted his head in the direction of a nearby garbage can. "If you don't drink it, it's going to waste." At that, Edgeworth took it, with a final exasperated shake of the head. Phoenix watched him throw back a swallow. At the very least, he wasn't spitting it back out, so that was a relatively good sign.

"Warming," Edgeworth allowed.

_I wish I could say the same._ But it wouldn't do much good to complain, after he had practically forced it on him.

They stood there for a minute, containers in opposite hands, sipping occasionally and observing a line of clouds above their heads. A familiar knot tightened in Phoenix's chest once again; the strange pull of obligation to do or say something. Even if he had no idea what.

_Right. I guess there's always more walking..._

It wasn't what anyone would describe as the ideal version of a leisurely stroll. On a relatively fresh patch of grass, an exhausted-looking mother was futilely attempting to control her rowdy children long enough to have something resembling a picnic. They had to swerve to avoid several packs of drunkards.

Phoenix gave a sympathetic wince as a well-meaning elderly man's aim went slightly askew, causing some of the birds to squawk in pain and shake the assaulting seeds from their feathers. He knew exactly how hard those things could hit.

Edgeworth was studying his expression. "What's the matter?"

"Bad memories of a case, is all," Phoenix said. _Just be glad you weren't there._ He found it surprisingly easy to imagine Edgeworth's expression at being confronted with the likes of the head chef of Tres Bien. Somehow, he sincerely doubted that the High Prosecutor would have been able to maintain his composure as well as Diego Armando had managed.

They passed several more minor distractions—a girl fooling around with an array of hats, several squirrels running for their lives, a young man warbling painfully on what looked like an old guitar worn with age and overuse—but nothing that prompted any more snatches of conversation. Phoenix felt a brief burst of irrational annoyance that the residents of the park weren't making things any easier for him, either.

Phoenix glanced at Edgeworth to gauge his mood. The other man was staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. Although he didn't seem to be loathing the experience as much as Phoenix had feared, it still wasn't very comforting to see him focusing on something Phoenix couldn't, probably miles away.

His thoughts cut off with a loud and slightly painful clunk as he felt his feet collide metal; he blinked and readjusted his line of sight to what was in front of him. His hands were pressed against rusted guard rails, overlooking, directly below, a phone booth and an ancient clock, and somewhat further than that the outstretchings of a beach, leading into a surprisingly pristine view of the nearby lake.

_I guess there had to be some reason this park is still around, asides from serving as a resting ground for the homeless._

Edgeworth moved next to him, forearms propped against the railing, taking in the sight as well. Phoenix turned his head slightly to look at him more closely; it was a strange paradox, seeing the prosecutor framed against such a serene, natural backdrop. He seemed oddly out of place—the very idea of Edgeworth relaxing at a picturesque beach seemed downright bizarre—and yet, at the same time, Phoenix found himself wishing that it was something he had been able to witness much earlier.

It was a comfortable silence. There was nothing in particular that signified the shift, but Phoenix felt his shoulders relax and the water settling a little less frigid in his stomach.

"I heard you're taking on a lot of cases."

"Yes, I suppose so," Edgeworth allowed. "But there were a lot of cases to be taken."

_They hadn't even been assigned yet,_ Phoenix thought. He held his tongue; if even obliquely mentioning the toll it had taken on Edgeworth's already non-existent leisure time had killed the earlier conversation, Phoenix could only imagine what discussing the _reason_ behind his sudden flurry of activity would do.

"It's hard for me to imagine—must be pretty tough..." Phoenix said instead. That was the understatement of the century; whenever he thought about the logistics of what Edgeworth seemed to consider a standard workload, his head throbbed. _I barely take four cases a year on average, let alone seven at once..._

"It's nothing I can't handle," Edgeworth replied. He paused, frowning slightly, and then continued. "And it's not like the workload is carried by myself alone. It's the forensics team and the other investigators that perform most of the difficult tasks. At best, for most of the time invested into any single case, a prosecutor just functions as an overseer. The cogs of a bureaucratic establishment can't really be compared to the responsibilities of an independent attorney." A thin smile flickered over his lips. "That's something I learned rather keenly about a year and a half ago."

_But you did fine,_Phoenix thought; there was an unfamiliar, alien sort of tightness within his chest, recalling the memory of watching the newsfeed of Edgeworth standing in his place, attorney's badge on his lapel as though it had never belonged anywhere else._ More than fine. I can't even imagine how things would have turned out if you hadn't been there..._

"At any rate," Edgeworth said, eyes falling to a particularly conspicuous indent in the sand, "One of them was just wrapped up today, at trial."

"So you were prosecuting?"

Edgeworth shot him a scathing look.

_Uh, right. _"So how did it go?"

"It was all right," Edgeworth said. "It was standard procedure, more or less. Though this may be difficult for you to fathom, the courtroom does usually hold some level of sanity in its conduct when you aren't present."

_How many times to have to keep telling people that that _isn't_ my fault?_

Edgeworth took a sip of his coffee. "Lana was on the defense. This was our first time facing each other, as a matter of fact."

_That would have been something to see. He must have been pretty nervous, though. _"So... did you win?"

"No," Edgeworth answered, voice level. "I didn't."

"Oh," Phoenix said.

For a minute or two, the same quiet fell upon them again.

Phoenix stole a sidelong glance. The breeze was tugging at the ends of Edgeworth's loose hair—making his bangs tumble over themselves in uneven clumps. He didn't seem to mind, although the uncharacteristically ruffled appearance made it look like the prosecutor had just woken up and rolled out of bed.

"What are you smiling about?" Edgeworth asked, a touch irritably.

"Nothing," Phoenix said.

Edgeworth snorted.

The sunset swirled amidst the clouds, striking them alight with vivid color and reflecting unevenly off of the distant surface of the water.

"It's a nice view," Phoenix noted.

"Mm," Edgeworth agreed.

"Can't imagine it really compares to the sights and sounds of Europe, though."

"I wouldn't say that," Edgeworth said, shaking his head. He still seemed lost amidst the depths of the lake. "This is..." He considered, gazing out into the waves. "It's nice," he finished a bit helplessly, echoing Phoenix.

Phoenix had never even been in a plane. Or out of state, come to think of it. The most experience he had with anything overseas were limited to glimpses of television dramas, and the specialized foods he tried now and then on his days off when he was feeling relatively adventurous.

"You must have seen a lot of things."

"Hmm, how should I put it," Edgeworth said. "Most of my time is taken up with work, of course, but... yes, I did try and see what I could as long as I was in the area."

"So what kind of things?" Phoenix tried to imagine what he thought would capture Edgeworth's attention the most, prosecuting duties aside; it depressed him slightly when the first thing that popped into mind was still a courthouse. _No, maybe a museum... old libraries. Something dusty that would give any sane person a splitting headache._

"The historical sites," Edgeworth said, "were fairly interesting. After a while the castles just start bleeding together... but it is a rather different experience to stand somewhere where some of the most critical events in history have taken place. But the natural sights were fairly impressive, too. And the foreign experience isn't just limited to that, of course. Eating different kinds of foods, hearing the music... being plunged into a different culture is something that engages the full range of a person's senses."

"Yeah..."

_In other words, of course a run-down park in the city can't compare._

Edgeworth caught his gaze out of the corner of his eye. The warmth of the fading sunlight met the cool grey of his eyes.

It opposed all common sense, but for that second Phoenix thought he might really be able to believe that Edgeworth would rather be here, with dying grass beneath his feet and cheap coffee in his right hand, surrounded by shrieking children and senile old men, than any of those other places with all of the luxuries they had to offer.

Phoenix found that he felt the same way.

_Because..._

"Can I assume you've been here before?" Edgeworth asked.

"Nah." Phoenix shook his head. "When I was in the mood for parks, there was the one by my offices."

"The 'mood for parks'? You?" Edgeworth raised both of his eyebrows. "In other words, that would be..."

_The couple of times I locked myself out of the office,_ Phoenix thought, but he wasn't about to voice that particular confession aloud. There was a hint of a wry, knowing quirk to Edgeworth's lips anyway, and Phoenix quickly set about finishing off the contents of his water bottle.

Edgeworth's head drooped abruptly; a second later his shoulders began to tremble violently. Phoenix turned towards him, alarmed, before realizing that he was shaking with suppressed laughter. Phoenix stared, and then felt it bubbling in his own throat, inexplicable and slightly insane.

_Why fight it?_

The sound of their conjoined mirth was enough to draw a few stares, but by that point Phoenix was too consumed to care. He found himself blinking back tears from the force of it.

Edgeworth fell quiet first, shaking his head. His hair once again fell unnaturally against his head, supported by the wind; lopsided to the right side of his face. Ignoring it, he crushed the empty coffee can in his hand and gazed down at the crumpled tin. It glowed a faint gold under the light of the sunset, illuminating Edgeworth's features, the curve of his face, just that little bit more.

"Hopeless," Edgeworth murmured.

_I know,_ Phoenix thought. His fingers closed slowly against his palms; he unclenched them again after a long moment. It did nothing to ease the odd, unnatural feeling of weightlessness just beneath his skin. _I know. _

* * *

"I'll walk you back," Phoenix offered. "You said it wasn't far, right?"

Edgeworth pursed his lips, expression caught between vague irritation and something else Phoenix wasn't able to define, but he didn't protest. He picked a direction—the opposite side from the parking lot, Phoenix observed—and started walking. As they made their way through the city blocks, a few of the surrounding street lamps began to light around them.

_He lives pretty close to the Prosecutor's Office, _Phoenix noted.

Edgeworth slowed to a stop outside a sleek apartment complex. It was considerably more impressive than the hovel Phoenix lived in, but that wasn't anything he hadn't already expected. He hesitated half a step when they approached the building entrance, but something pushed him forward to continue alongside him, up the three flights of stairs where Edgeworth's actual living quarters waited.

Edgeworth pulled out his keys, moving forward. Phoenix stepped aside.

"I had a good time," Phoenix said. "Thanks."

"A good time of doing nothing?" Edgeworth asked, skeptically. But muted warmth was coloring his eyes—maybe lingering remnants of the sunset, long gone from the sky itself.

"Yeah," Phoenix answered. A part of him was surprised at how easily it came. "A really good time."

Edgeworth glanced back at him, then turned his attention back to unlocking the door. Even the jangle of keys seemed terse; Phoenix couldn't help but think that the sheer amount of effort Edgeworth seemed to be taking to turn the key into the lock was rather unusual. But eventually, the door gave way. Edgeworth took an automatic step forward, and lingered awkwardly in the thin boundary between his home and the world outside.

Edgeworth's eyes were still distant, lost amidst some new uncertainty. Finally, he seemed to settle on an unseen decision, and nodded to Phoenix.

"Well, then," Edgeworth said, hand still on the doorknob. "Goodnight."

Phoenix nodded. Raised a hand in farewell, and began to move to leave.

Edgeworth turned away, leaving only the frame of his back facing him. The familiar sight jarred something within Phoenix, making him stop.

Whether it was impulse, decision, or some strange amalgam of both, Phoenix had no idea. The wave shifted into an awkward fumble for Edgeworth's sleeve, somehow managing to get a decent grip on his forearm to pull him forward. It was clumsy, uncoordinated; their noses came dangerously close to colliding against each other. Edgeworth managed half of a surprised sound.

But Edgeworth's eyes still widened as Phoenix felt his own fall shut. Edgeworth's lips were warm, stark in contrast to the chill of the descending evening, even stiff and unmoving against Phoenix's own.

After a long moment, he pulled away, breathing heavily. A faint mist lit the air between them. Edgeworth was still staring. He seemed frozen to the spot, as though unable to process what had just happened.

"Goodnight," Phoenix answered. There was a giddy, fluttering sort of thrill twisting in impossible knots amidst his chest, maybe in time, he thought dazedly, with the beating of his heart.

He turned and began to make his way back. The last he saw of Edgeworth, the prosecutor was still left standing in his doorway, struck into dumbfounded silence.


	6. Chapter 6

Struggling Against Gravity

Chapter Six

When Phoenix walked in to the restaurant, he had to stop himself from wincing impulsively. The entire place seemed wrapped in lacquered wood, expensive-looking rows of booze Phoenix had never heard of all along the back wall of the bar to the left, where a bartender standing polishing glasses. Even the air smelled different—Phoenix briefly wondered if it was pumped into the building using fans made out of one hundred-dollar bills.

_Maybe this wasn't such a good idea_, he thought, feeling distinctly ratty in his old suit.

That afternoon—when he had gotten to the office after a relatively sleepless night of staring at the ceiling, all of last night's courage having evaporated hours before—he'd half expected several angry calls from Edgeworth on his cellphone voice mail. Or a single frantic one from Gumshoe on the office line, informing him that the prosecutor had packed up and moved back to Europe late last night.

Instead the day had been relatively quiet, almost painfully so, until Edgeworth called him around noon and asked him if he was free this evening instead of Thursday. Apparently Edgeworth had managed to get reservations to _Il Cocina—_and from the way Edgeworth said it, that sounded like a feat in and of itself—because of a last minute cancellation.

Between a tongue that was suddenly several degrees too dry and too many words vying for position in his throat, Phoenix managed a simple, "That sounds fine."

Right now, pizza in his underwear was sounding even better as he scanned the crowd of tables, looking for a particular familiar face. After several seconds of peering, his eyes locked on that familiar shade of pink. Edgeworth was in a booth near the back, mostly obscured by a leafy potted plant. He looked up from his menu as Phoenix sat down.

"You made it."

"Yeah," Phoenix said. He shifted in his seat and reached for a menu. "So, what's good here?"

"I've always been partial to their linguini alla vongole," Edgeworth said. "But all of their pasta is excellent."

_And no doubt expensive_, Phoenix added mentally. Looking at the menu, he noticed there were no prices listed next to the entrees. _I guess I could always sell a kidney. I have two of those, right?_

He eventually decided on the fettuccine al burro, and relinquished the menu to the waiter when he stopped by to take their food and drink order. When his water arrived after several agonizing minutes of silence, Phoenix fell upon it like he hadn't drank in days.

As he watched Edgeworth take a sip of his wine and look across the restaurant in a pointed sort of politeness, like staring at Phoenix in this state would be as rude as gawking at someone with a disability, Phoenix couldn't help but think, _it shouldn't be this different_.

But it was. It was as though he had somehow become hyper-attuned to Edgeworth's every movement, the way his broad fingers cupped his wine glass easily, the way his throat worked every time he took a sip of wine. _What have I gotten myself into?_ Phoenix thought. _The last time I can remember being like this was the first time I…_

Their meals arrived. Thankful for the distraction, he nearly shoveled the pasta into his mouth, barely stopping to taste before he gulped it down.

"It's good," he said. _Maybe "phone bill" good, but I'm not sure it's quite "electricity bill" good…_

Edgeworth nodded as he took a bite of his own dish. "It's been a while since I've been here. They've improved."

"Really…" Phoenix said. He felt the knot in his gut suddenly tighten, like someone had grabbed both ends and pulled with all their might. "So, Edgeworth, about—" The words he was about to say suddenly twisted in his mouth to become something else entirely. "—this place. How did you find out about it?"

"Someone once suggested it to me, and its proximity to the office made it ideal." Something like a shadow flashed across Edgeworth's face. "I used to…have dinner meetings here."

_Guess I probably shouldn't ask what type of meetings they were, or why he decided to bring me here._

They managed to lurch from one conversation topic to the next between bites of food. Phoenix shared what little news he had from Maya. Edgeworth talked about another prosecutor that had been caught taking bribes.

_It's almost like a ballet_, he found himself thinking inanely when the topic shifted to the décor of the restaurant. Both of them dancing around what they really wanted—needed—to discuss.

When the check came—singular, not plural; Phoenix didn't quite know how to read that—Phoenix barely glanced at it before fishing his credit card from his wallet and sliding it between the leather folder. Edgeworth looked like he was going to protest, but a look at Phoenix's face forestalled anything he planned on saying. As long as it was less than a hundred dollars, Phoenix thought he could manage.

It felt like he was trying to digest strings of lead instead of fettuccini as they left the building and walked down the sidewalk towards the parking lot.

"I'll drive you home," Edgeworth said. It wasn't quite a question, and not nearly a command.

It gave Phoenix pause. He tried to process the switch between the Edgeworth he'd grown familiar with—turning away from Phoenix and continuing alone to where his car was parked down the street—and the one who was staring at him right now. Edgeworth's body angled slightly towards the red sports car in mute invitation, feet making crunching noises as he shifted against the gravel in the parking lot.

"All right," Phoenix said, following Edgeworth to the car. He got inside and Edgeworth turned the key in the ignition, shifting gears in concise, almost abrupt motions, until they were back on the street again.

"So, about… all this." There was a sort of ironic humor that it would slip out when Phoenix least expected, considering he'd been trying to keep the words at bay all night. Beside him, Edgeworth's grip on the wheel tightened.

The prosecutor swallowed, but when he spoke, his voice was level. "I understand if you—"

"No, that isn't what I meant," Phoenix said quickly, hoping to forestall a conversational path he didn't want to take. _And I didn't go out to dinner to laugh at you either._ "This is new to me, so I…" He ran his fingers through his hair when the words wouldn't come.

"I know."

"I don't really understand what's going on," Phoenix said, feeling more and more stupid as the seconds ticked by. "Or what I want…"

A familiar silence settled, thrumming with a strange undercurrent.

"What happened last night doesn't mean…" Edgeworth began, then abruptly switched to another thought. "If you need more time to think about things…" He never took his eyes from the road.

Phoenix was silent, but something seemed to loosen in his chest, like he could finally breathe for the first time in days. But looking over at Edgeworth, the headlights from the cars moving past shone over the prosecutor, washing out his pale complexion even further. It was irrational, but for a moment it felt like this was all a dream, that Edgeworth was going to melt away to the blearing beeps of Phoenix's cellphone alarm under his pillow.

Phoenix turned away and leaned against the hand rest next to the passenger window, watching as a couple cars passed them and sped off into the night.

"Whatever happens, last night wasn't a mistake," Phoenix said. The quiet words filled the car. "I did it because I wanted to."

Edgeworth didn't respond.

The rest of the trip passed in silence, seeming both too long and too short, until they finally pulled up in front of Phoenix's apartment complex. Phoenix walked around to the front of the car and realized, dimly that he wasn't sure what the protocol for this situation was—that he wasn't even sure how to define the evening in his own head.

Edgeworth made things easier by rolling down the window, but not making a move to get out of the car.

Phoenix leaned down and, after a short pause, found himself saying, "You're free on Saturday, right?"

"Why?" Edgeworth responded instantly, blinking. "Did you have something in…no, you never do." He ended in a half-chuckle, and Phoenix realized it was the first time he'd seen the prosecutor smile all night.

"I've got a couple of days. I'm sure I can think of something by then."

"_If _you manage to think of something besides an impromptu walk in the park, then, yes, I'm available," Edgeworth said.

Something seemed to bubble and fizz underneath the surface of Phoenix's skin, like champagne, as he focused on Edgeworth's face. _I'm still not sure what I'm doing, or where this is going to lead…but I don't think I need any more time._

"Then, it's a date."

* * *

Phoenix pulled the phone free of its charger. The battery was only partially refilled, but his own supply of nervous energy seemed endless. While years of opening up a law office still had yet to beat out a regular schedule in the framework of his morning, this particular ritual was becoming ingrained habit only with a few days of practice. It was difficult to feel cowed at his own lack of responsibility, though, when his heart performed the funny spin it always did when the clock flipped its minute hand to a quarter past twelve.

As he punched in the numbers, he was pretty sure he'd used this thing more often in the past two weeks than he had in the past two months.

For most of his life, Phoenix had carried mixed feelings about the weight of the cell phone in his pocket. The best he could usually "hope" for was a voice mail from an inebriated Larry or the occasional check-in from Maya. But now it didn't seem a day didn't pass without his fingers drumming impatiently against the outline of rectangular shape of the device, checking the time on the half hour and eventually leaning back against the wall with the receiver against his ear and a smile touching his lips as he heard that one particular voice, irritable more often than not, filter over the line.

A quarter past twelve was one of the few periods through the framework of Edgeworth's workday when it was less likely that he'd be greeted with a terse "I'm busy, Wright, I'll talk to you later" and the subsequent companionship of a click and a dial tone. Phoenix supposed this was around the time that he was on his lunch break. 'Lunch break' probably meaning something more along the lines of 'a span of about a half hour where Edgeworth was working on two papers at a time as opposed to six'.

"It's a Greek restaurant this time. I've never been there myself," Edgeworth explained, once they were past the standard 'hello' and 'how are you'. His voice was accompanied by the familiar sound of a pen tapping sharply against paper. "But I've heard good things from a coworker."

_You actually talk to your coworkers about things not related to work? _Phoenix mused._ Didn't see that coming..._

"Trust me, Wright," Edgeworth said, "I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about being on the receiving end of the recommendation."

"Receiving end?" Phoenix repeated. "So you were invited out?"

"Once in a while, it does happen." Edgeworth said, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice, and Phoenix realized that his own nails were digging tightly into the side of the phone.

_I don't doubt it,_ Phoenix thought, _but..._

"Greek sounds fine," he said, not wanting to dwell on this.

"All right," Edgeworth said. "I don't have trial that day, so we'll have to meet..."

Phoenix didn't hear the end of Edgeworth's suggestion; a shrill series of beeps abruptly cut over his voice. For a split second, he considered ignoring them, but sighed in resignation as they only seemed to sharpen in insistence.

"Hang on a second, Edgeworth, I'm getting another call."

"Oh." Edgeworth sounded slightly disoriented at the intrusion. "Of course."

Phoenix pulled the phone from his ear and glanced at the screen.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "It's Maya. I'll get back to you later, all right?"

"All right." There was the bubble of a pause that meant Edgeworth was half-considering adding something more, but as he did nine times out of ten, ultimately decided against it. As his call ended, Maya's automatically took its place.

"Hey Nick!" she greeted at once. It was somewhat jarring hearing her cheerfulness replace the low voice of the High Prosecutor in such rapid succession. "I didn't wake you up or anything, did I?"

_Come on,_ Phoenix protested,_ it's past noon! I'm not _that _much of a deadbeat..._

"Oh, quite sulking, Nick; I was just kidding," Maya said. "I was just seeing how you were doing; it's been nearly a week since I've heard from you!"

"Nearly a week?" _It doesn't really feel like it..._

"Yup. Holding up the fort okay?"

"It's still standing, at least," Phoenix reported. "How have things been for you?"

"Mmm.. pretty busy, as usual, but okay," she said, in half sing-song. "Dealing with this and that, you know..." _I really don't_. "Though I've been having to get my hands pretty dirty."

A series of bizarre mental images flashed before Phoenix's eyes, all of them fairly unsettling. "Uh, excuse me?"

"You've seen the gardens up here in Kurain, right?" Maya said. "Because we're so out of the way, we just grow a lot of our own food. And there's some old tradition about using, uh, what was it... purified, natural diets to hone the soul, but I don't really remember the specifics. No one_really_ follows that tenet anymore, but it is about time to start pulling out some of the early stuff, so..."

"Oh." To be honest, Phoenix couldn't remember seeing any gardens around Kurain, but it was probably in his best interests to keep that to himself. "Yeah, right."

"Make sure you're actually awake when you're up and about, would you, Nick?" Maya teased. "Anyway, that's been the bulk of it recently. Winter's coming, so we've got to be careful."

_You mean the acolytes have to be careful. Anytime you got hungry you'd just come rushing down here asking me to treat you to a burger..._

"And with you?" Maya asked. "Anything exciting going on?"

"Well..." he opened his mouth, a shapeless, unknown word readied against his tongue, then closed it again, brow furrowing. He had no idea what his instinctual reply would had been.

No, he probably had a good feeling what it would have been. He switched the phone to the opposite ear, feeling something twist uncomfortably inside him. In spite of everything, he still wasn't quite sure how to define whatever it was that sent him going to dinner with Miles Edgeworth and pacing around the room waiting for a chance to call. Even more unfathomable was the prospect of having to explain it to Maya.

"Huh? Don't tell me you actually took a case?"

"No," Phoenix said. "Not really..."

"Tch. Why do I bother asking anymore?" Maya clucked her tongue. "Well, as long as you're doing okay. Keep me updated, will you?"

"Yeah," Phoenix said. His stomach twisted a little farther; once again the phone switched ears, outside of Maya's perception. "Of course."

"Oh, Pearls is back from Hazakura, by the way!" Maya added. "There she is—why don't you say hi to her, too?"

"Oh—uh, sure."

If he expected the knotted lump in his gut to ease a bit when he heard Pearl's voice, he was sorely disappointed; it only clenched heavier against him.

_It wasn't a lie or anything,_ he told himself. He didn't have any reason to feel guilty. But he didn't really have any reason not to tell her what changes had been going on in his life since she had left, either. The former notion was just a more comfortable one to focus on than the latter.

Still, as he said hello to Pearl, the lingering unease continued to prick sharply at the back of his neck, and no amount of rationale could erase it completely.

* * *

In hindsight, Phoenix was fairly sure that the only way he'd managed to survive the first few dinners was forcefully blinding himself to how uncomfortable the situation had really been. It was easier to sprint through a mine field ignorant of the actual danger. Now that things were like this, though—where the long stretches of uncertain silence were no longer acceptable—the process of trial and error that was learning to converse with Edgeworth seemed to be outlined with sharper, deeper boundaries—almost regulations to tally and keep track of.

There were certain lines that weren't to be crossed when speaking with him—not yet. Phoenix had known that as a generality for a long time, but he began to trace where they were etched in more precise terms—discussing their childhood was always dangerous, but talk of this funny incident or that particular idiocy on Larry's part was a pass more often than not. Gregory Edgeworth's name was never to be invoked when it could be helped. Phoenix also had little, if any, room to broach the subject of Manfred von Karma without express prompting.

He also had to come to grips with taking more stairs than he ever thought he would have to in his life. Some of the city's fancier restaurants employed a skyline view as part of the attraction. Phoenix had moved automatically to the elevator; Edgeworth had moved to the stairwell—he hadn't looked back while Phoenix had, and by the time, panting and nearly doubled over, he had managed to catch up, there was a wall closed behind Edgeworth's eyes and a clench to his jaw that told him that this habit wasn't up for discussion, either.

It was frustrating—but it wasn't really all navigating through explosives, trying to determine which wires were safe to cut, either. There were the other things, smaller things, captions scribbled into the edges of his archive of mental recollections. Not off limits, but _there._ It was like having a blindfold taken off.He wasn't sure how they'd failed to escape his notice before.

When the day's work at the Prosecutor's Office had been stressful, Edgeworth's tone was a little too level to ring naturally; his eyes focused a little too hard on his utensils as he ate. Those were the days when Phoenix learned that the bulk of the conversation would have to come from him. When he ran out of interesting college stories to relate, he took to reading the newspaper more carefully, skimming for anything that looked remotely like something Edgeworth would be willing to talk about. It wasn't a perfect system, but it more or less worked—though he still wasn't sure how he and Edgeworth had at one time managed to maintain a nearly six-minute conversation about football. He considered it a landmark.

Edgeworth was also surprisingly straightforward taste in food. It was probably the ruffles that brought to mind the idea of his taste for escargot and its ilk--"I have eaten it," Edgeworth said, when Phoenix brought it up over a plate of steak and potatoes, "For your reference, it is actually quite good"--but he seemed willing enough to eat most anything as long as the presentation met his standards. Experimental rather than elitist was probably a good way to frame it, Phoenix figured. Though on further consideration, he couldn't help but wonder if the prosecutor might be toning down his real preferences for the sake of Phoenix's wallet. He hoped not.

When Phoenix went out to eat, he was usually content just to focus on his food. He'd raised an eyebrow, as they were leaving an Italian place he'd been more than satisfied with, when Edgeworth neglected to leave his usual excessive tip.

"Didn't like it?" Phoenix asked, as they were walking back. "I thought mine was pretty good. Maybe you just chose a bad dish."

"It wasn't the food," Edgeworth said, running a distracted hand through his hair. "The service was rude--" _I didn't notice anything strange,_ Phoenix thought, somewhat bewildered, but continued to watch Edgeworth tick off everything imperceptibly wrong with their dining experience with something approaching affection, "the lighting was distracting, and the music was grating..."

Phoenix hadn't really noticed any of that, either. He considered himself musically illiterate; he couldn't really tell the difference between this week's rock band and last month's pop sensation. He supposed he assumed Edgeworth was mostly the same, too consumed in his own professionalism to spend much time dwelling on the arts—Phoenix himself hadn't exactly devoted an excess of thought to them even when they were his major in college.

So the week after that, it had caused a few blinks when Edgeworth had drifted quickly over to the records section when they stopped by an antique store. (Edgeworth had slowed as they passed by the sign; Phoenix turned on his heel and pushed the door open before he could catch himself and resume their regular pace.)

It had surprised him more when Edgeworth's fingers flicked quickly over the classicals and moved onto the selection of jazz.

"I already own most of that," he said, glancing up and seeing Phoenix's expression.

He realized as they were leaving that it was sort of funny that it struck him as more odd that Edgeworth had a taste for jazz than that he still owned and purchased records in this day and age. But then, given his taste in fashion, it wouldn't have surprised him to step into his apartment and find himself transposed into a century or so in the past, either.

He did notice one day—he was pretty sure when they returned to Exposé for another walk, this time treading the beach and crunching sand beneath their feet—that Edgeworth was actually wearing a different suit. He was almost certain he wouldn't have noticed it before; the discrepancies were subtle. While the main bulk of the design itself was identical, and the color was still a shade of vivid magenta, it was just a shade darker, the sleeves angled slightly differently at the cuff.

"You're wearing something different today," he observed.

"So are you," was Edgeworth's sardonic reply.

_The suit I wear to court is pretty much the same each time, actually..._ But he supposed it was different when you were juggling different cases day in and day out. Still, it was though a switch had flipped; Phoenix began keeping track of the different suits he was able to identify. He counted off at least a dozen—differences lying in different-shaped buttons, narrowly folded lapels—before he began to see them cycle over again. He wondered if he'd ever get to see Edgeworth in something normal. A sweatshirt or a pair of jeans. It was a nicer thought than it really had any right to be.

They weren't able to meet every day, but with enough pressing Phoenix found he could usually pry three or four holes in Edgeworth's schedule per week. It wasn't long before he found himself becoming a little tired of only seeing his face over a dinner table, even when they tried out different restaurants.

So the next time they wound up at a museum—most of its material about colonial times—and even though Phoenix felt about as much interest as Edgeworth displayed at the old cookwear and muskets, it was nice. And the surreal, vaguely nightmarish sight of Edgeworth's head surrounded by carnivorous fish afterwards when they stopped by the aquarium was definitely different.

There was a time when, at a general loss, they had actually just gone to the local library, an abode Phoenix couldn't remember stepping foot into for years. After amassing an impressive collection of tomes covering, of all things, dog breeding, Edgeworth had performed a singularly magnificent eye roll when the librarian, stereotypically stern, bespectacled, and elderly, informed Phoenix that his account had expired quite a long time ago.

The brief humiliation was thoroughly worth it to see the look on the prosecutor's face when he deftly took Phoenix's place at the front of the line, and was promptly given the same notice.

"I've only been back for a few months," Edgeworth muttered, growing only more agitated when Phoenix could not for the life of him wholly wipe the smirk from his face. "And I've been occupied."

"Right," Phoenix answered. Edgeworth only looked more sour as he signed the registration form. Phoenix moved to take the pen from him.

"Never mind," Edgeworth said shortly. "It's not like you'll be coming back, is it?" He slid Phoenix's selection of books against his own. The librarian set to work checking both sets out under a single name without so much of a questioning look. Once again, it was only after they had already left, and Phoenix was reveling in the blessings of Edgeworth's car heater, that it occurred to him that he'd somehow become accustomed to keeping an eye for it whenever he and Edgeworth went out together. That look.

The awareness of it was oddly detached. It wasn't as though they _knew_ Edgeworth.

Though their meetings became more frequent, and as Phoenix's archive of facts to remember about Miles Edgeworth grew heavier and heavier in volume, learning to greet each other was never much of a problem. Phoenix was still trying to adjust to that odd flutter in his chest whenever he saw Edgeworth approach, one hand raised when their eyes met. A part of him didn't really want to have to get used to it.

Learning to say goodbye was harder.

When he over-thought it the second time, it had been strange to accommodate for the taller man's height; miscalculating this and insufficient warning had led to heads knocking together briefly and lips pursed mainly over cold air. Edgeworth's eyes had bugged strangely before he started chuckling, low and strained; Phoenix joined him shortly after, but didn't let it last long before gripping his forearms and making a better job of it on the retry.

Edgeworth had been hesitant, his arms began to raise from his sides, palms turning halfway inwards, before falling again in a rather helpless motion.

On the fourth or fifth night, he had finally leaned in as Phoenix did, and Phoenix felt his right hand lift, as though of its own accord, to cup the underside of the other man's cheek. They stayed like that for a long moment.

It was nice, he thought. Even as the autumn chill settled more deeply into the evenings, necessitating gloves and scarves and warm drinks as they walked through town, the sun fading into the horizon a little earlier as August slid into September—for the few seconds after he pulled from Edgeworth to make his way back down the stairs and across the street to the nearest bus stop, he could never shake that lingering warmth from his fingertips and the nerves of his lips.

* * *

It really shouldn't have left him so flabbergasted.

He and Edgeworth had spent the evening grimacing at each other over similar plates of undercooked Indian food. Phoenix recalled he had entered the restaurant considerably hungry, but his stomach was making painful jabs of protest against his ribs as he even contemplated attempting to further shovel the overspiced mess down his throat. Edgeworth managed somewhat better than he did—probably owing to a broader pallet of experience—but still led a conspicuously small tip behind them as he led the way out. As the fresh air rushed against their faces, and they turned to start walking back in the direction he had parked his car, he'd suddenly stopped to tell Phoenix he was leaving next time's choice up to him.

"Uh," Phoenix answered, "what?"

"I don't have the time or the patience to booking restaurants week in and week out, Wright," Edgeworth said, adjusting the cuff of his left sleeve, lips drawn into the beginnings of a pensive frown. "I'm leaving it to you next time."

_Everyone picks a bad restaurant now and then, you didn't have to take it that hard..._

"Er," Phoenix responded, smartly, "All right."

After they had said goodbye, and he was back in his own apartment, Phoenix silently cycled through all of the nationalities they'd dined at until now—German, Italian, Greek, French, Indian, Japanese and Russian—what was left? For a ridiculous moment, his mind offered him nothing but white noise in answer—_American?_

Unfortunately, spending more time with Edgeworth didn't make the idea of the prosecutor accepting a burger and an order of fries any more plausible to Phoenix. He was briefly tempted just to return to their old German standby, but in his mind's eye he thought he could see an imaginary Edgeworth's expression twist in the faintest hint of disappointment in response.

Eventually he settled on fondue. That seemed safe enough, as he couldn't think of anyone he knew who disliked it off the top of his head. The sheer number of internet searches and ad pages he'd flipped through to come to that conclusion was slightly embarrassing, but Edgeworth didn't have to know about that part.

It turned out that there were four establishments that served fondue in the local area. He selected the one with the name he thought was most pronounceable and reached for his phone.

Edgeworth agreed deftly to the suggestion; the actual ease of it after all of that anxiety and frustration made Phoenix grin a little sheepishly to himself, beyond Edgeworth's sight.

And after hanging up, giddiness he couldn't remember feeling since his college days rushed in a wave of goosebumps down his arm as he looked up directions, and then browsed through the menu selection posted online.

_Good, they have that Vin-Soulier wine... he likes that, doesn't he? _

The pictures the website had of the interior—rich velvet lined with silver, and subdued lighting—were promising, too, if he trusted his familiarity with Edgeworth enough to venture a guess as to his preferences there. He remembered the prosecutor hadn't seemed to take well to the grey, stony layout of one of the places they'd gone earlier—if he remembered right, that Greek place...

_Maybe I can convince him to stick around long enough to check out the local theater, too... we still haven't done that..._

When the hour hand of his watch hit six on the arranged evening, Phoenix made a quick check around the office premises before moving to leave. The television and the lights were off. Everything more or less in its prescribed location. After a final, ceremonial glance in the mirror and a quick adjustment of his tie, he reached for the doorknob—when the Steel Samurai theme began wailing at him from his pocket. He felt something tug at the corners of his mouth when he saw who it was.

"Edgeworth?"

"Wright," came the reply, sounding agitated—the knotted stress in his voice fell like a dismaying weight upon Phoenix's ears. "I can't make it in tonight."

"Huh?" he said, rather stupidly. "Why?"

"Something's come up on the case I'm working on. The details aren't important." There was bustling in the background; if Phoenix strained his ear he could make out voices hollering about updating reports and re-examination of some crime scene. "But I'm going to have to be here all night, by the looks of it."

Phoenix's hand fell from the door.

_Oh, _he was supposed to say here,_ all right then, goodnight. Maybe some other time._

He didn't voice it. There was something else curdling against his insides, bitter and acidic in the shadow of the stock lines—lines that had been easy to utter barely six weeks ago.

"You've always managed to make it before," he protested.

"What?" Edgeworth said; his voice rang harsh and somewhat surprised. Phoenix didn't repeat himself; he knew Edgeworth had heard him.

"I _have_ cancelled before," the prosecutor said, after a terse moment. The earlier agitation grew a degree more audible. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ahead of time," Phoenix argued back. "The reservation is half an hour from now, I was just on my way out the door--"

Edgeworth's voice became stony, slanted oddly downwards. "I don't see how this is different."

"It just is." Before Edgeworth could point out what an irrational and stupid statement that was, he added: "Isn't there something you can do? You can't even swing thirty minutes...?"

"Wright, you--"

"Twenty?" He didn't need Edgeworth to call him on being pathetic by now; Phoenix was painfully aware of it all on his own, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. "What's going on, anyway?"

"I'll tell you what I can," Edgeworth said, "_later._" It was attempted reassurance as much as dismissal.

"Right," Phoenix agreed. "Unless you're too busy with work."

There was a sharp sound on the other end, like something had snapped.

"Look, there's nothing I can do about it," Edgeworth said. His voice had a bite of impatience to it, an underlying _grow up. _"I can't compromise my cases and the people involved just so that I can have a meal with you, or anyone else."

For a minute, neither of them said anything.

"All right," Phoenix said, finally. "I guess I'll cancel."

"Please do."

Another stilted pause. If he hadn't been able to manage a graceful _goodbye, take care_ from the beginning, he could still make do with it now and cut his losses, leaving both of them with dignity relatively intact. Things came up, after all. It couldn't be helped.

"I was just looking forward to seeing you," Phoenix said. "That's all."

It was the most unfair thing he could have said.

"I..." Edgeworth began, then hesitated; he finished the thought with a heavy sigh that cut as deeply as any retort might have. "I have to get back to this, Wright." Phoenix opened his mouth to reply, not quite done with being petty, but realized he was only speaking into the sound of an empty dial tone.

He didn't know if he'd expected it to ease his disappointment or not, but it did nothing of the sort. As the lights flipped back on, in much slower succession than they had been turned off, and Phoenix sank back against the couch, fingers of one hand cradling his temple against a building migraine, part of him wondered what, exactly, had been happening to him over the past month.

* * *

Tinny laugher echoed from the office television across the room. Though the lights were on inside, dusk had given way to night at least half an hour ago. That, coupled with the darkened receptionist area, gave Phoenix the feeling of being adrift and alone, like he was the last living person in the entire building complex.

His phone rang, Steel Samurai ringtone taking on an almost humorous—if startling—quality in the low light and relative silence. He answered it without even glancing at the screen, there were only two people that would call him this late, and one of them was probably out on a date with his latest girl.

"Edgeworth?" he asked, turning the television off with a wave of the remote.

"Wright," Edgeworth said in greeting.

"What's going on? Do you have to cancel again?" Phoenix asked, keeping his voice neutral and light. Directly after that debacle last time he'd tried to pick a place to eat, there had been several days of no contact between the two of them—he assumed Edgeworth had been too unsure of where they stood, and Phoenix too stubborn to outright apologize until he had to. It wasn't something he wanted to go through again so soon.

"We're still on for tomorrow," Edgeworth said distractedly, as though Phoenix had derailed what he'd been planning on saying. "Though I was considering pushing our reservations back a half hour, if you don't mind."

"No, that's fine," Phoenix said, puzzled. When Edgeworth didn't affirm and hang up, his bewilderment grew. "If there something—"

"How was your day?" Edgeworth said abruptly.

"Me? Good, I guess. Made some follow-up visits on my most recent clients, went down to the detention center to talk to some prospectives…"

"I see," Edgeworth said. There was a long silence on the other end, and Phoenix was just about to ask again if Edgeworth was feeling all right when it hit him.

He blinked from the force of it, smile slowly stretching across his face as he leaned forward, chin in hand. "Yeah, just the same old same old. How was_your_ day?"

He thought he heard an audible sigh of relief on the other end—_he really _isn't_good at this sort of thing, huh_—before the other man replied, "It was decent enough, all things considered. My case went well, Detective Gumshoe's dithering on the stand aside..."

_I'd think he'd be used to that by now_, Phoenix thought. "What happened?"

"He got the testimony he was supposed to give for my case confused with the one he had just given for another prosecutor. When I asked for an explanation, he apologized and said he'd been distracted over thinking about what he was going to do for dinner," Edgeworth said, voice spread thin with irritation even hours afterwards. Then, relatively normal: "I'm not sure he's been eating properly."

A mental image of a particularly clumsy, young ex-police-officer-turned-waitress surfaced. _I think it's less _what_ he's planning on eating, and more about _who_ he's planning on eating it with._ But Phoenix had a sneaking suspicion that Edgeworth wouldn't be especially keen on discussing the particulars of his subordinate's love life.

Phoenix heard the sound of Edgeworth shifting in his leather chair. He wondered if Edgeworth was still staring at his desk with its stacks of paperwork, or if he had turned around to take advantage of what had to be a gorgeous view of the nighttime city skyline. "Still at work?"

"Yes." Judging by the unusually soft tone of Edgeworth's voice, Phoenix was surprised to find himself assuming it was the latter instead of the former.

"Me too," Phoenix said.

"Really? Since it's this late, I would have expected…"

"I've been running around all day, so there were some things I had to finish up here," Phoenix replied, letting Edgeworth's disbelief go without comment. He'd finished up what little paperwork he had about thirty minutes ago. "I guess I sort of feel obligated…"

"Obligated?"

"Well, it is a law office. If there's someone who absolutely needs my help, I'd like to be here," Phoenix said, thinking about coming in to all the messages left on his machine every morning.

"It might be more helpful to them if you kept regular hours," Edgeworth said, a touch dryly.

_How did I know that was coming?_ Phoenix sighed. He pushed the chair back further and propped his feet on the desk, turning his own gaze towards his "view"—that of the Gatewater hotel rooms across the alley. A motorcycle backfired from somewhere down the street.

"Sometimes it's a little hard to get motivated to come in," he admitted. "Especially when I go down to the detention center because I think someone wants my help, then they tell me I only have fifteen minutes because they have an appointment with someone else after me."

"Most lawyers aren't like you," Edgeworth finally said after a moment of silence. Phoenix got the feeling the prosecutor was trying to phrase something delicately. "They'll take whatever comes their way."

_That's not really what I meant, but thanks._ "I'm planning on leaving pretty soon here," Phoenix said, getting up to close the blinds.

"I'm about done here as well," Edgeworth began as Phoenix deposited the last of the paperwork in the newly organized filing cabinets. He jiggled the keys in his pocket—finding the one to the door by the familiar shape—as he made sure all the windows were secure and turned off the lights, Edgeworth's voice intimate against his ear the whole time.

It was on the tip of Phoenix's tongue to ask if Edgeworth wanted to meet somewhere for an impromptu late dinner or even just a cup of coffee. But he didn't. For some strange reason, a quiet bowl of noodles over at the stand down the street, and then falling asleep to late night infomercials on the couch sounded like the best way to cap the day.

"I'm heading out. Yeah, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Sleep well," Phoenix said as the door swung to a close behind his back. His voice seemed to warm in his throat. "Thanks for calling."

* * *

When Edgeworth called him and mentioned he had come into possession of a couple of symphony tickets from a coworker, Phoenix wasn't sure what to say.

On the one hand, being asked out by Edgeworth for something other than dinner was a rather nice novelty. On the other, all classical music sounded pretty much the same to Phoenix; he had never really understood the concept of going to _watch_ people play music for hours; and his mental image of 'going to the symphony' involved a certain level of style not found within a ten mile radius of his closet.

"They're good seats," Edgeworth had offered, as though Phoenix should know what that meant.

"Sounds good," Phoenix had found himself saying. It wasn't as though he had anything better to do.

So here he was now, waiting outside his apartment, dressed in his other clean work suit. Edgeworth pulled up about fifteen minutes later, just as Phoenix was considering going back inside to wait. Edgeworth rolled down the passenger-side window as the car eased to a stop; he leaned forward and stared at Phoenix. Even in the relative darkness, Phoenix could see the prosecutor's brow furrow as he squinted.

For a moment, Phoenix was genuinely sure he would be found lacking—that Edgeworth would insist he go back in and comb his hair, or find something to wear that wasn't threadbare and navy blue.

"I know you're attached to your badge," Edgeworth said instead, "But I'm fairly sure you won't need it tonight."

Phoenix looked down and there it was, on his left lapel. "It's a habit," he muttered defensively as he got into the car. Edgeworth's lips quirked for a second before he shifted into first gear. Perhaps it was Phoenix's imagination, but he'd been doing that more often lately.

The drive went quickly enough. Edgeworth seemed well acquainted with this part of the city, grumbling under his breath about parking options aside. Eventually they managed to find a parking garage—with a fee that Phoenix generally attributed more to highway robbery than parking—but Edgeworth was silent as he pulled up and took a ticket from the automatically teller.

As they got out of the car and Edgeworth locked it, he turned to Phoenix and motioned to the back seat. "The music hall is a few blocks away. Do you want my coat?"

"No, I should be fine." _I'm not exactly a fragile flower._

Edgeworth frowned, but he seemed to reconsider what he was going to say because after a short pause he replied, "I'm wearing more layers than you."

_And your suit isn't as cheap, huh?_ Normally, the unspoken implication of Edgeworth's words might have been irritating, but instead, Phoenix found he had to struggle to keep a grin off his face. "Come on, you were the one that was antsy about being late, right?"

Though Phoenix hated to admit it, once they got out on to the street, he began to wish he'd taken Edgeworth up on his offer. It was colder than September had any right to be; the empty streets somehow gave the chill in the air more bite than normal. When Phoenix began to rub his hands together, Edgeworth glanced at him with a smirk that had more than just a tinge of 'I told you so' to it.

Phoenix grabbed Edgeworth's hand, just meaning to dissipate some of his own chill—and annoy the prosecutor in the process. Indeed, Edgeworth frowned in irritation. "Your hands are cold, Wright," he complained.

_Nothing gets past you, huh, Edgeworth?_

But instead of pulling away when he could feel his digits again, Phoenix found his fingers curling around Edgeworth's. He matched his pace to Edgeworth's as they walked past the lit shops and traffic lights. Just as Phoenix's fingertips were becoming comfortably warm Edgeworth pulled away, shoving both his hands deep within his pockets and increasing the pace of his clip towards the building looming down the street.

The look on the prosecutor's face reminded Phoenix of the few times he'd grabbed Edgeworth's hand and pulled him towards a destination when they were children. Invariably Edgeworth would tug away after a while and rub his hand on his shorts conspicuously, making a face like he'd stuck his hand in muck instead of a little bit of sweat.

_It's nice to see he's gotten a _little_ more subtle about it_, Phoenix thought as he trailed a couple of paces behind, grinning.

As if reading his thoughts, Edgeworth slowed and turned towards him. "What's so amusing?"

"Nothing," Phoenix said. _Well, nothing he'd find funny, at any rate_.

They passed the last street across from the music hall, and Phoenix was slightly comforted to see more of a mixture in levels of dress than he expected—actually, more of a mixture of _people_ than he'd expected. A man walked past them, daughter's hand in his. They, in turn, passed an older couple leaning against one another as they slowly navigated the steps.

Edgeworth was obviously familiar with the inside of the building too, as Phoenix found all he had to do was follow him as he led the way to the box seating on left side of the hall. Settling in, he watched for a few minutes as the orchestra began to warm up their instruments. His earlier assumption had been right, Phoenix discovered. While the acoustics up here were nice, it was difficult to sustain interest in watching people playing in the distance. He let his eyes fall shut.

"You can listen without closing your eyes," Edgeworth whispered after a few moments. Phoenix didn't dignify it with a response, he knew the end result would be a zing on his inability to do more than one thing at a time, or something along those lines. Instead, he allowed his head to loll to the side, against Edgeworth's shoulder as though he'd fallen asleep.

He could feel the other man's muscles suddenly tense, a slight twitch that not even the normally stoic prosecutor could hide, but instead of the shove and irritated chiding he expected to follow, Edgeworth didn't even so much as move.

The light behind his eyelids dimmed, and the high, almost mournful sound of an unidentifiable wood instrument eased into the air…

Phoenix jerked awake with an almost-snort, blinking as applause filled the auditorium. "Wha…?" he mumbled.

"It's over, Wright," Edgeworth said, still clapping.

"The first movement?" Phoenix rubbed his right eye with the back of his hand.

"No, the entire concert."

At first Phoenix thought Edgeworth was kidding, but the people a few seats down were already packing up their things and moving towards the exit.

"How did I…" Phoenix began, sleep still softening the edges of his brain.

"I don't know either. At least your snoring provided an interesting counterpoint to the percussion," Edgeworth said. It sounded like he was trying to work himself into irritation and was failing miserably.

"I don't snore," Phoenix protested, taking Edgeworth's proffered hand when the prosecutor stood up.

Edgeworth didn't have much to say as they maneuvered through the crowds towards the exit, but when they were back on the street, he turned to Phoenix once again. "I hope you know that was a complete waste of a perfectly good ticket. Are you too tired for a quick cup of coffee, or should I just drop you off at home?"

_Keep needling me and I won't tell you about the drool on your left shoulder, Edgeworth. _Phoenix shook his head. "No, coffee sounds good."_I'm pretty well-rested thanks to _someone_ who'd rather waste a ticket than wake me up..._

* * *

Their meeting place this evening was just down the street from Edgeworth's apartment—a privately owned café Edgeworth had suggested after shooting down Phoenix's proposal of the chain closer to Phoenix's office, since they were both too tired to make the effort for dinner.

There had been a point, Phoenix was pretty sure, when he would have mentally rebelled at taking the bus out of his way to drink a cup of coffee with Miles Edgeworth, then turning around and taking it back home. The fact that this sequence of events wasn't only normal, but _desirable_, was probably a sign that what little sanity he had left after dealing with cases and Maya on a regular basis was slipping away.

Phoenix found he didn't mind too much.

And when Edgeworth looked up through the window of the cafe from the magazine he was perusing while waiting, a sort of pleasantly startled expression coming over his face, like meeting Phoenix really was the highlight of his day, Phoenix found he didn't really mind at all.

"Have you been waiting long?" Phoenix asked when he got inside.

"Fairly," Edgeworth replied, closing his magazine and placing it on the table. "If I had known you would be this late, I would have gone home to change."

_My fault for asking_, Phoenix thought. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. But, as it didn't appear Edgeworth was particularly perturbed over the delay, Phoenix moved on without comment.

"This looks like a nice place," he said instead. The ambiance _was_ nice, especially compared to his local coffee chain, which was usually filled with people tersely grunting their orders and crying children. Most of the patrons seemed to be college couples, leaning over lopsided stacks of textbooks and papers a little closer than was strictly necessary.

"…the only place that serves it," Edgeworth finished saying.

"Huh?" Phoenix blinked, returning to earth. He settled a little more firmly in his chair, trying to quash the idea that the two grown men in business suits seated across from one another at the small circular table made a particular sight. He reached for a drink list. "Why did you choose this place again?"

Normally Edgeworth would become irritated at having to repeat himself, but all that happened was a briefly sour look on his face, like he had bitten into a slice of lemon, before he sighed in a _can't be helped_ way that was almost affectionate. "I said they're the only place in the immediate area that serves Lapsang Souchong that isn't from a tea bag."

_I have no idea what that is_. Having thought that, perusing the menu, if it was anything close to how Edgeworth pronounced it, it was the most expensive drink on the list.

"Have you decided?" Edgeworth asked after a few silent moments.

"Oh, ah, I'll just get the house special coffee blend."

The waiter came by shortly, nodding with familiarity to Edgeworth before taking both their drink orders and vanishing in back. _I wonder if he comes here often…then again, with the way he dresses, once would probably be enough._

When their drinks came back, Phoenix took a sip of his coffee. As far as his unrefined pallet could tell, it was good enough. Phoenix could only really tell bad coffee when Maya burned it or if it had been sitting in the pot for several days, so the intricacies of tea were probably completely beyond his ken.

Watching Edgeworth take a sip of his and then unconsciously sigh contently in response, however, made a particular warmth hover in the center of Phoenix's chest—he was fairly sure that wasn't from the coffee either.

"That looks good," he said.

Edgeworth paused, then inclined his teacup slightly in an almost-but-not-quite invitation. Before he could change his mind and pull back, Phoenix reached out. Their fingers glanced as Phoenix took the cup. He raised it to his lips and took a small sip.

His reaction must have been a sight to behold, because Edgeworth's chuckle was particularly loud as he reached out a hand to rescue his tea.

"How can you drink that?" Phoenix said sourly, wiping his mouth and unconsciously reaching towards the center of the table for the sugar. _It tastes like someone used it as an ashtray._

He had the packet open and about half of it into the tea before his brain caught up with his hands and saw it fit to inform him that he was dumping something in someone else's drink. He drew back and fidgeted with what little remained, debating on whether or not to pour the rest of it into his own coffee. Edgeworth reached out and plucked the sugar from Phoenix grasp and poured the remainder in, stirring once or twice to make sure it didn't just settle at the bottom before he took another swallow.

"Ruined," he said almost conversationally, eyes half lidded in amusement as he stared at Phoenix over the edge of the cup.

_Don't look at me like it's _my_ fault. Just add some liquid smoke; that should fix it! _"Sorry," Phoenix said in lieu of anything else. "I'll, uh, make it up to you."

At that, Edgeworth's smirk seemed to widen faintly, taking on the tinge it did when Phoenix said something particularly foolish in court. No, that wasn't quite right—there was nothing derisive about the way Edgeworth was looking at him. It was almost affectionate.

"Good day?" he asked when Edgeworth set the cup down once again. _It must have been. I don't think I've ever seen him like this before._

"About as well as can be expected."

Phoenix smiled. Regardless of Edgeworth's blasé response, he could tell. There was something calm and confident in Edgeworth's entire air tonight, in the way he held the cup to his lips, the way his hand rested quietly on the table instead of drumming. It was a rare enough sight that he found himself wanting to soak it up; while Edgeworth occasionally turned to watch people walk down the street in-between bursts of small talk, Phoenix's eyes didn't move.

Eventually, Edgeworth set his teacup down and Phoenix took one last gulp of his coffee for the road, before both of them got up as if as one. Phoenix reached for his wallet, but Edgeworth was faster; he had pulled out a twenty and set it atop the check before Phoenix could even open his. Phoenix shrugged. Some part of him, no doubt left over from his days with Dollie, protested, but that particular aspect of his personality wasn't paying the bills.

The night air was cold against his face and the sky rumbled ominously as he followed Edgeworth out the door. He paused to gauge the thick clouds hiding the moon from view. If this weather kept up, he was going to have to invest in a pair of gloves, or bribe Pearl or Maya to make him a set. In lieu, he reached for Edgeworth's hand, and was momentarily surprised to feel it close around his own. And, when Edgeworth didn't pull away after a minute or two, that surprise changed into something warm that seemed to radiate across his chest.

It almost became a strange sort of game Phoenix played with himself. _He'll let go after this stoplight_, he'd think, and then Edgeworth's grip would actually tighten as they rushed across the alternating white lines of the crosswalk, angry rumbles of thunder following their hurried footsteps.

Edgeworth didn't actually let go until the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, about a block away from his high rise. They both picked up the pace, not quite running but no longer walking. By the time they made it to the entrance, Edgeworth's long bangs were plastered to his forehead and his cravat was a limp parody of itself. The back and shoulders of his suit were damp.

Phoenix followed Edgeworth to the left and into the stairwell. It was always a slight shock to the eyes to go from the opulence of the marble tiled, open lobby to the cramped cement flights of stairs, but it was something he was getting more and more used to as time progressed. Their footsteps were wet against the steps, echoing loudly.

When they reached the familiar door to his apartment, Edgeworth turned around, digging through his pockets for his keys. Once he had gotten the door open, he turned back to Phoenix. This too had become familiar.

Edgeworth very rarely touched when they kissed—and when he did it was usually a fleeting palm against Phoenix's arm. Phoenix sometimes had a sinking feeling it was more for his benefit, to allow for a quick get away if things should go beyond Phoenix's comfort level.

So it was a surprise when Phoenix leaned across to give Edgeworth a goodnight kiss and he felt a hand come to rest on his lower back. There was no force behind it, but Phoenix leaned in closer than he might normally. He raised his hand, fingers skimming across the line of Edgeworth's jawbone—_stubble_, his brain noted distantly, amusingly—before coming to rest at the base of Edgeworth's neck, still cold and slightly clammy from the rain.

When their lips met, Edgeworth made a noise low in his throat, so faint Phoenix thought he might have imagined it. Phoenix broke away and, in a move of daring that left even himself surprised, moved down to kiss right below Edgeworth's ear, at that sensitive junction where it met his jaw.

That time he knew he wasn't imagining the sharp hiss of breath that escaped the prosecutor's mouth. Or, for that matter, the hand moving up his back, pulling him closer. Edgeworth caught Phoenix's mouth again, pushing forward. Phoenix's breathing became labored as a twist of tension caught in his lower belly, taut and thrumming with anticipation.

Edgeworth pulled away first, breathing heavily. There was a second of brief silence, a thick pause overflowing with possibilities, but the moment passed before Phoenix could wet his lips or move his tongue.

Knowing it was too late, Phoenix forced his mouth to work. "I should get going."

"Goodnight, Wright," Edgeworth said, a faint tinge of warmth, an unspoken 'see you soon' ghosting beneath the surface.

"Yeah," Phoenix said. "Uh, you, too. Sleep well."

There was nothing left for him to do but leave.

In the elevator, Phoenix ran a hand though his still-damp hair and tried to decide which was stronger, the relief or the disappointment. Too late he remembered that it was raining.

_I should have at least asked to borrow an umbrella_.

* * *

Typical day. Recently, that meant waking up—somewhere in the range of ten and eleven o' clock—checking to see if he was able to scrape together a bowl of starch resembling breakfast, taking a shower, and heading to the office, chiefly to watch television. He turned the volume down when the phone rang.

His heart still gave a funny jump; maybe it always would—but he no longer felt obligated to let his mind race itself into the frenzy before he so much as answered, and his hands no longer went cold and stiff as he pushed the button to receive the call.

"Hey," Phoenix said. "Are we still on for today?"

"No, not tonight," came Edgeworth's voice, "I'm working late again." There was an unspoken apology beneath the words. "Maybe tomorrow... no, the day after—wait a moment." The sound of pages fluttering fell in place of his fading voice.

Phoenix drummed his fingers on the armrest as he waited.

"Actually..." Phoenix spoke up, then hesitated. "Can I still see you tonight?"

"What?" Edgeworth said. Then, slightly annoyed: "I just said I'm working late, Wright. I'm not going to have time to go out."

"We don't have to go out," Phoenix replied.

Half a beat, then, "Excuse me?"

"I could see you at your place," Phoenix said. It was akin to forcing lead weights out of his throat—but he drove forward. "We could just meet there. If you give me a call after you've wrapped up."

The sound of pages turning had stopped. Phoenix remained silent, waiting for him to answer, but internally his mind was churning at a rate that almost matched the rolling boil that was his stomach.

"It'll be late," Edgeworth said again. His voice was tightly level. "Probably very late."

"That's fine," Phoenix said, before he could allow himself to rethink it.

By Phoenix's count, it took fifteen seconds, but he was fairly certain his heartbeat was firing at least six times that rate by the time Edgeworth spoke up, his words passing through tense fingers white against the curve of the receiver.

"All right," Edgeworth answered. The _right_ came out slightly strangled.

"See you then," Phoenix said, "tonight."

As it turned out, Phoenix got the call just shy of eleven. From the way Edgeworth had talked, he had half wondered if he was going to have to stay up waiting until past midnight into all hours of the morning.

"I'm driving back," Edgeworth said, shortly.

"Okay," Phoenix answered.

That had been the sum of it.

He'd walked to his door, turned the doorknob, heard it open with a click—and turned back around when he realized he'd left his jacket—and again for his keys. With the former slipped over his shoulders and the latter tucked into his pocket, he moved back to the exit, but the nagging feeling persisted at the back of the mind that he was forgetting something important.

_Should I bring something...?_

Imagining the look on Edgeworth's face if he showed up to greet him with a bouquet of flowers was enough to make Phoenix's flinch slightly from the force of the imaginary door being slammed in his face.

In the end, he had just went. He ended up sorely regretting it five minutes into the bus ride, too, when his throat was parched and aching painfully.

Phoenix flexed his wrists as he stepped off the bus into the evening air and began to walk; it was like his body couldn't figure out if he wanted to hurry or delay his approach. Maybe it just wanted to stay in the limbo of the darkened street, suspended just before the finality of walking through a door.

Inevitably, though, he caught sight of the apartment building. He gave a cursory glance into the parking lot for Edgeworth's car—it was there—before making his way in and up the three flights of stairs, realizing halfway up he could have just taken the elevator. It must have been out of habit—after all, though he didn't actually remember the exact number of Edgeworth's room, walking through the familiar halls made it easy. It was routine. He'd done it a dozen times before, after all.

He'd seen the door a dozen times before, but never stepped past it.

He raised the back of his hand against the polished wood, breathing deeply.

_Here goes nothing._

Two quick raps with the back of his knuckles. It took about a second and a half; he ended up waiting for five minutes. He was about to decide if he wanted to try to call Edgeworth to see if he was alive or turn around and leave—his hand had inched towards the pocket of his coat—when the door opened abruptly, the click of the releasing lock like a soft bang in the otherwise quiet hall.

Phoenix had expected that seeing Edgeworth's face, knit tightly with unspoken anxiety, would only serve to knot his intestines into a further tangle—but to his vague surprise, he instead felt a strange wave of calm—and something resembling certainty—wash over him.

"Hey," he said.

Edgeworth met his eyes.

Phoenix stepped inside.


	7. Chapter 7

Struggling Against Gravity

Chapter Seven

Phoenix squirmed and wrinkled his forehead when the sunlight glanced across his eyes. His left hand flew upwards to shield them from the unwelcome brightness; the other grabbed blindly for sheets that still felt somewhat stiff and alien against his skin. Successfully seizing a loose fistful, he dragged them upwards until they obscured his face up to his hairline, but it didn't help as much as he had hoped. There was something fundamentally irritating about the blend of regal pink and iridescent yellow.

An earlier, unwelcome intrusion of the sun was one of many things that had been difficult to adjust about waking up in another person's bed; in his own apartment, the window was situated such that the morning light never hit higher than his waist. Personally, he thought that this was more than a fair trade for the plush carpets and fancy kitchen—and it was beyond Phoenix why an apartment occupied by a single man would require more than one bathroom—but he supposed he wasn't the one paying for it, so his opinion didn't count for much.

Though it wasn't really as bad as it could have been: being in a third story apartment gave Phoenix a slight respite from a full on glare. Even though the windows in Edgeworth's room were huge—nearly floor to ceiling—the surrounding buildings were tall enough to block most of the rays until the sun rose to a certain height or angle. Like, unfortunately, now.

"You need curtains…" Phoenix mumbled, rolling over. The light was considerably less invasive when attacking the back of his head rather than his face, he observed.

Edgeworth's reply, when it came, was farther away than Phoenix expected but no less tart. "You always say that."

_And you never do anything about it_, Phoenix inwardly retorted. He lifted his head and briefly squinted at the form of the other man across the room before falling back onto the pillow. This routine was as familiar as his perennial complaint—the sound of footsteps against the hardwood floor; the closet rolling open; rustling of fabric against fabric as Edgeworth tied his cravat. Somewhere before and after, the sound of water running and the hum of an electric shaver; hopefully Edgeworth hadn't made enough of a mess in the bathroom last night that it wouldn't be unbearable to use when Phoenix felt inclined to wake up more fully...

Remembering suddenly, his eyes flew open and he pushed himself up again. "Wait a second, you're not actually going in today, are you?"

Edgeworth paused—almost guiltily, Phoenix thought—in putting on his jacket. "I feel better."

_It'd be hard for him to feel any worse than he did last night,_ Phoenix thought, inspecting Edgeworth from head to toe. He really did look a little more lively, if still as pale, but the bar hadn't exactly been set high. Rubbing his eyes and shaking his head, he glanced around—the glass of water on the bed stand, still half-full when he had last seen it before, had been emptied now. That was promising.

"Do you need any help? Breakfast or anything?" he asked.

"No," Edgeworth replied. "I'm fine. It's not as though I've been rendered an invalid, Wright."

_You could stand to be a little less defensive, though._

"If you say so," Phoenix said. "But let me know if there's something."

Edgeworth seemed embarrassed by the scrutiny; the dresser on the other side of the room abruptly held an inordinate amount of interest for him. His hand plucked at the cuff of his suit distractedly—whether out of frustration or trying to hide how bad he really was feeling, Phoenix couldn't tell.

"I said I'll be fine," he repeated. More awkward fumbling at invisible lint, then, "But... thank you for your concern."

_The condition you were in,_ Phoenix thought,_ you'd have to have been blind or stupid not to be concerned..._

* * *

When Edgeworth hadn't answered the door last night, Phoenix had paused only briefly before digging into his pocket and using his index finger to fish out the ring of keys in an easy, practiced moment. 

Where before there had only been two on the steel loop, home and the office, there was now another, newer addition. This was the first time he had the chance to use it to enter the apartment—he usually left later than Edgeworth, so he was normally the one left to lock up—just looking at the jagged piece of metal instantly brought forth the memory of receiving it.

Phoenix had been halfway through swallowing a bite of sandwich when Edgeworth had held it out to him, with a coached, casual '_I thought you should have this_'. His unfortunate reaction had caused a quite a degree of alarm from Edgeworth, who rose from his seat, and drew several stares from the surrounding diners.

When he'd managed to free his windpipe of the last bits of bread and cheese, Phoenix closed his fingers around it, and managed a raspy, '_thank you._'

He left it lying in his pocket until he'd gotten home that day. It didn't _quite_ hold the same impressive sheen as his attorney's badge—an unreasonable standard for anything to be compared against, probably—but he still took a few minutes to admire the shape and feel of it against his palm.

The words sprang into his mind, vision blurring just for a moment, as he locked it onto his key ring: _this is real._

The _click_ as Edgeworth's door sprang open was equally real as he withdrew his hand and let the key slip back into his pocket, leaning forward to peer inside. Despite all of that, he wasn't quite to the point that he felt wholly comfortable just walking into the other man's home without permission or acknowledgment.

_He wouldn't have given it to me if he didn't want me to use it_, Phoenix reasoned as he stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind him.

"Edgeworth?" The low light seemed to swallow his inquiry as soon as it left his lips; the only reply was the subliminal hum of the stainless steel refrigerator on the other side of the kitchen.

_Maybe he's still on his way home_… But Edgeworth almost always called when he was going to be delayed, and Phoenix's phone had been silent the entire evening.

Phoenix bent down to remove his shoes before tiptoeing past the kitchen and directly into the expansive living room. Even in socks and with the ticking of the stately grandfather clock against the far wall, the sound of his footsteps against the wooden flooring were loud to his ears—the sound of an interloper instead of an occasional inhabitant.

He gave the far side of the room a cursory inspection, eyes drifting past the dark widescreen television and the equally dark matching leather chair and L-shaped sofa that curved around it. To the right of that, the abstract art that took up a large portion of the wall lost much of its punch; without the lights on, its somewhat disturbing slashes of red tempered into a set of inky black lines.

Phoenix briefly considered stretching out on the sofa to wait for Edgeworth's arrival, but even in the quiet and the darkness, the sense that_someone_—Edgeworth or not—was there permeated the air like a static cling raising the hairs on his arms. He flipped on the lights to avoid tripping over something and made a beeline down the wide hallway. He stopped just in front of the first doorway.

The room at the end of the hall, Edgeworth's study, was technically a safer bet. Even though Edgeworth had started keeping, in Phoenix's opinion, saner hours at the office, Phoenix couldn't count the number of times he'd woken up and stumbled to the bathroom, only to notice his companion's side of the bed was empty and cold. Invariably, if Phoenix stuck his head out to check where Edgeworth had drifted off to, the telltale line of light radiating from underneath that same door gave him his answer.

It was that lack of light that made him turn his immediate attention to the bedroom instead.

It was dark there, too, but by squinting Phoenix could make out a huddled lump in Edgeworth's bed. As he crept closer, the form became more definite—definitely Edgeworth.

All that was visible was the very top of his head, tufts of hair haphazardly bunched in a way that informed Phoenix that the prosecutor hadn't been out of bed all day. Phoenix let out a breath he hadn't even known he was holding.

A more comprehensive inspection proved that Edgeworth was still breathing. _At least he isn't dead. Sick, maybe? It'd have to be something really bad if it kept him away from work... _

He reached out a hand reflexively, but his fingers closed back against his palm halfway across. _I should probably just let him sleep... he wouldn't want me to see him like this, anyway, knowing him..._

It was possibly the idea of having wasted an entire cab fare for nothing, but something balked inwardly at the thought of just walking out the door and going back home when Edgeworth was in this state. He'd spent enough miserable nights on his own with a cold to know how lonely it got when you were sick by yourself. Briefly considering options, Phoenix figured that the prosecutor wouldn't mind too much if he camped out in his living room, at least.

Mind made up, just as he was about to leave the room, he heard the blankets shifting behind him. Edgeworth's face appeared, squinting and blinking disapproval in the light streaming from down the hall.

"Is that you, Wright?" he said, surprisingly coherent, if somewhat muffled.

"Yeah," Phoenix said, moving closer again. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't," Edgeworth replied cryptically, wincing as he shifted to a somewhat upright position. A glanced at the digital display of the alarm clock on the bedside table didn't seem to improve his mood. "I'm sorry. I meant to call you earlier."

"Don't worry about it," Phoenix said. Even in the semi-darkness, Phoenix could see that Edgeworth's pajamas were sticking to his abnormally grey-tinged skin. His breathing seemed labored, tight with suppressed pain. "Hey, are you all right? Should I get you some water or something?"

"Don't bother," Edgeworth replied, struggling back under the covers. "I just need to sleep it off."

Phoenix supposed that Edgeworth turning his back to him most likely signified the end of their conversation._ Now that I've had a better look, I'm not sure all the sleep in the world is going to help with whatever he has._

Even with that, Phoenix still felt a strange need to 'bother' with _something, _after seeing the other man so obviously suffering—whether Edgeworth himself wanted to be nursed back to health wasn't really the point. In spite of Edgeworth's protests, he left the bedroom towards the steel-edged, rather imposing kitchen for a glass of ice water.

After going back to place it on the nightstand, then, on further thought, redoubling back for a coaster when he remembered the death glare he'd gotten last time he set his drink on a piece of Edgeworth's furniture without one—Phoenix scrambled himself a dinner of eggs and settled down to watch the evening news on Edgeworth's widescreen TV. It wasn't quite the fresh seafood along the beach he'd been looking forward to, but Phoenix liked to think that years of perfecting the technique of living alone had left him with the ability to fry a mean egg or two.

Carrying out his normal evening routine in a different apartment took some getting used to, but it wasn't long before he was stretched out on the leather couch just as lazily as he would his own. The glow of the television cast long shadows against the furniture as it flickered across Phoenix's face.

He thought he'd turned the TV down to a whisper, but apparently even that was enough to rouse Edgeworth from his non-slumber. He shuffled into the living room a couple of hours later, half hunched over, and gave Phoenix a look that said '_you're still here?'_ before settling down into the overstuffed leather chair without a word.

"Feeling any better?" Phoenix asked at the next commercial break, moving his eyes from the screen.

"No, not really," Edgeworth said, directing a glare towards his abdomen, as though he could somehow will himself back to health by using the same techniques he would on an unhelpful subordinate.

"I could fix you something to eat," Phoenix offered, muting the television and turning his full attention on Edgeworth. _As long as he likes scrambled eggs or canned soup._ He fully expected his offer to be instantly rebuffed, so he was surprised when Edgeworth seemed to consider.

"It's probably not a good idea," he finally decided, wearily but not unkindly. "I'm not particularly hungry."

"Well, I'll get you another glass of water, at least," Phoenix said.

He sloughed off the couch and walked into the kitchen, shaking away a slight prickle in his feet that told him he'd been supine for too long. When he returned, Edgeworth straightened for a moment to take the proffered glass and cup it in both hands, as if he didn't quite trust himself to manage with one. He took a quick gulp and then another, with a slight grimace that was more reminiscent of foul-tasting medication than ice water.

"What do you think it is?" Phoenix asked when he was done swallowing.

"The stomach flu. There was a pretty bad strain of it going around the office a few weeks ago."

_I guess that's one of the perks of being a one-man agency—you don't catch what everyone else gets_. Before Phoenix could respond verbally, Edgeworth set down his half finished glass of water with a quiet '_thank you'_ and tottered back towards his room down the hall. Phoenix watched him for a few moments to make sure he got back in one piece, then turned back to the television.

Once the news finished and most of the late night programming was changing over to reruns of old sitcoms from half a century ago and infomercials, Phoenix was faced with another dilemma—or rather the one he'd faced earlier: stay or go.

He turned the pros and cons over for a few moments before giving a mental shrug. If he'd already stayed this late, it didn't seem like there was much point in going back now.

When Phoenix crawled into bed next to Edgeworth, the other man stiffened slightly before gingerly maneuvering himself to face Phoenix.

"I don't think you want what I have," he murmured.

"I've probably already got it," Phoenix said. _All things considered..._

"Suit yourself," Edgeworth said, with exactly the same inflection someone else might use to say 'you're an idiot'.

An hour later Phoenix had to inwardly agree with Edgeworth's implied statement about his mental capacity. He flinched as he heard Edgeworth's feet hit the floor and a mumbled expletive escape the prosecutor's lips as he limped towards the bathroom for what had to be the fifth time that night.

Then the sound of retching began.

_All he had was a glass of water! There can't be anything left!_ Phoenix protested, trying to drown the sound out under a layer of pillows.

He felt torn between two options when the other man returned to bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, obviously miserable and almost shaking: the still slightly alien desire to pull Edgeworth closer, and the desperate longing to grab a pillow and retreat to the relative sanctity of the couch in hopes of stealing at least a few hours of sleep.

In the end, he didn't quite do either, but he stayed, at the very least.

He thought it was around three or four when he felt Edgeworth relax at last, as though the string of pain making his body tense had finally snapped. His breathing evened out and Phoenix, with no small measure of relief, felt his own respond in kind.

* * *

"I just wanted to make sure you'd make it through the night," Phoenix said. "It wasn't a big deal." _Really, I didn't really do anything besides get you some water and invade your space..._

"You won't be saying that when you're retching in your own toilet a few days from now," Edgeworth suggested, rather ominously.

_Gee, thanks._

"It's not like I haven't taken care of sick people before," Phoenix shrugged. "I'm used to it."

Edgeworth raised his head to match gazes with him for possibly the first time all morning. "Maya, you mean?"

"Huh?" Phoenix said, briefly thrown. "Oh... yeah." Edgeworth didn't seem to take nearly as much delight in the situation as Maya had, he recalled. The spirit medium showed no particular shame at exploiting her run with a common cold to demand that Phoenix bring her soup, crackers, magazines, and operate the television remote at her command. All day.

Edgeworth's hands continued to work in repetitive motions about his cravat. "How has Maya been, by the way?"

Phoenix frowned. _That's kind of a strange place for the conversation to turn, but..._

"The last I heard of her, she seemed to be doing okay," Phoenix answered. His brow furrowed further as he tried to think back. "It's kind of been a while, though... why do you ask?"

Something flickered across Edgeworth's face, too quickly for Phoenix to get a good look at, let alone properly read into. "No reason. I was just wondering."

Cravat fixed securely in place—truthfully, it had been for a while, but Edgeworth finally seemed to notice—he crossed the room in confident, striding steps to retrieve his briefcase from the corner, unable to entirely hide a short wince at the effort of bending over to pick it up. Phoenix leaned forward automatically, even though he was too far away to provide any real assistance.

_I hope he's careful today..._

"If you want to skip tonight, I'll understand," Phoenix said. _It's not like it'll be much fun if he spends the evening in the theater bathroom_.

"What part of—" Edgeworth cut himself off with a sigh of irritation, straightening quickly, as though to further reassure Phoenix of the stability of his condition. "If I feel that terrible, I'll call you ahead of time to cancel, like I _always_ do."

_You didn't last night,_ Phoenix thought. Somehow this didn't seem like the best time to bring that up. _Though to be fair, he _is_ usually good about that sort of thing..._

Mollified more by Edgeworth's attitude than his words, Phoenix rolled over to the prosecutor's sunlight-free half of the bed and pulled the comforter up over his shoulders. The ensuing sigh from Edgeworth was several degrees fonder than the first, and half a minute later he felt a light touch along the side of his cheek.

"Don't forget to lock up," he heard Edgeworth say. "And make the bed."

"I won't," Phoenix mumbled in reply. The touch transformed into an almost chiding tap before withdrawing, and Phoenix waited until he heard the sound of the apartment door closing shut in the distance before he let himself slip back into sleep again.

* * *

On Phoenix's end, the day played out rather uneventfully. Once he'd managed to drag himself out of bed for real, he had to admit that Edgeworth's shower was several degrees nicer than his own, even if he was still struggling to decipher the figurative Greek that was the other man's assortment of fancy soaps and hair conditioners. 

After that, a dull day at the office filled mostly with even more television meant that his mind was primarily split between wondering how Edgeworth was holding up, and wondering about the incoming theater date they had arranged once they were both free from their respective jobs.

By the time Wright and Co. closed, his phone had yet to ring with any significant calls. He took the lack of contact as a reassuring sign that Edgeworth had managed to keep himself from clogging the toilets at the prosecutor's office with any further content from his stomach, pocketed his keys, and headed out of the building.

He'd been looking forward to this for a while—the fingers of his left hand closed around the ticket concealed in the jacket of his pocket. For all they had talked about it, this was the first time he and Edgeworth had managed to gain entry to a play they were both willing to give up over two hours of their time to attend. Despite Phoenix's history in the field, he found he couldn't drudge up much enthusiasm for lengthy political grandstanding and Edgeworth had seemed reluctant at best to trade paperwork for a show whose script was written by a college student

Truthfully, he still wasn't sure how enthused he was about a dusty classic featuring two men debating the finer points of existentialism, but glancing down the cast list of the advertisement his interest had spiked at the sight of a few names that, if he could trust his memory, he recognized as former classmates. Even if the production itself didn't cater to his tastes, it'd be nice to catch up on old times, though it occurred to him a few days too late that this would also mean introducing them to Edgeworth.

He still hadn't made up his mind if that prospect filled him with a strange, indescribable jolt of excitement or a bottomless weight of dread. Either way, not quite willing to commit himself to one conclusion or another, it might not even be up to him. There wasn't any guarantee that in the post-showing rush he'd be able to get anyone's attention or that Edgeworth would be interested in meeting a bunch of strangers anyway—and it wasn't like the potential reunion was the real point of going to begin with...

As he made his way down the stairwell, something in the back of his head suggested that, given Edgeworth's state this morning, it might be best to call and make sure they were still on schedule.

_He did say _he'd_ call if something came up..._

It was as simple as that, Phoenix decided. Besides, it wasn't as though Edgeworth didn't know that he was concerned when they had split up that morning.

One cramped bus ride later, Phoenix—after an adventure in circling several of the same blocks before stopping at the closest retail store for a local map—managed to locate the theater in question. It was a relatively small place packed between privately owned shops, but the black velvet lining its doors and the tuxedo the usher was sporting like a second skin still suggested some measure of class. There was already a line forming outside, Phoenix noted, which was generally considered a positive sign for the performance quality.

He checked his watch. He was twenty minutes early, which owed more to the bus schedule than his own prudence, but Phoenix was almost always first at the place of their arrangements anyway. He glanced around, pacing back and forth a few times to confirm the prosecutor's absence, before taking his place at the back of the line.

But when the doors opened nearly a half-hour later and people began to be escorted inside, he was still alone. A second glance at his wrist told him that Edgeworth was now five minutes late and counting. Something like misgiving fluttered briefly in Phoenix's chest, but he pushed it aside as the people behind him began to mutter loud complaints about his holding the line up.

_Where is he...?_

As with Phoenix's general experience with lines, this one moved in a series of starts and stops, rather than anything resembling a flow. Every few paces forward, he glanced over his shoulder, scanning the contents of the crowd stretching out behind him and any incoming passersby's. No familiar faces crossed his sight, and he felt himself becoming outright uncomfortable—like he was entirely out of place if Edgeworth wasn't here at his side.

He tried to think of the other times the prosecutor had been this late—_ten and a half minutes..._ and all the instances he could come up with were countable on one hand.

_Did I get the wrong building?_

He shifted uneasily when the doors came into view with no one blocking his path, one hand gripping the ticket still lying in his pocket. He cast yet another look over his shoulder as the usher held out his hand expectantly. Phoenix sighed. There was no graceful way to do this, so he just muttered a quick apology under his breath, brushed off the annoyed glares from the people shuffling behind him as best he could, and excused himself from the line.

_No...this is the same theater and time listed on the ticket. I didn't make a mistake..._

He hesitated briefly before staking out a path adjacent to the rows of people, searching with eyes used to training for a glimpse of pink or a telling cravat. Once again, he was rewarded with neither, even as he went back for a second comb through.

_Where the hell _is_ he?_

As the street lights began to illuminate around him, the last person vanished through the entrance, and Phoenix was left mostly isolated on the sidewalk.

The usher glanced over to his direction with a questioning look. Phoenix shook his head, caught between an impulse to apologize and an impulse to plead for a few more minutes. The usher shrugged, apparently making up his mind for him, and took two steps back to pull the heavy doors shut.

Phoenix exhaled slowly. He nearly glanced at his watch, before letting his arm fall back to his side in frustration. Having reached his limit, he dug in his coat for his cell phone.

After pressing a sequence of familiar keys, it rang sharply against his ear: once, twice, five times.

Then an automated click, followed by: "This is Miles Edgeworth. I'm unavailable at the moment, so if you have business..."

Phoenix clapped the phone shut, one half of him too irritated and the other half too worried to sit through the entire message. He moved forward about five steps before dialing again. The second effort procured the same result—and so did the third, thirty seconds later, and the fourth, in another three minutes, then the fifth, sixth, and seventh on the bench while nursing a cup of coffee to stave off the cold.

He wasn't sure how many attempts he'd made altogether by the time he slowly rose from his seat to walk to the nearest bus stop, a sick feeling settling deep in his stomach.

_Probably a late day at work, _he told himself. _Let it go, Wright. He just doesn't have his phone with him... something like that..._

The bus arrived after ten more minutes of waiting with an almost mocking hydraulic hiss—and even through that span of time he couldn't stop himself from scanning the area between each passing minute to see if maybe, against all odds, Edgeworth had shown up after all.

As he approached—more like sulked—towards the vehicle to step on board, he hesitated as the driver shot him a questioning, almost sympathetic look from beneath his cap. At that, Phoenix found it difficult to convince himself that '_stood up on a date'_ wasn't etched across his face for anyone to read.

He moved his hand to change his phone for his wallet in order to pay for fare. He hesitated.

_One more try can't hurt..._

His hands were apparently ahead of his brain; he'd already flipped it open and begun to redial. He knew it was ridiculous—he'd already tried at least ten times, so there wasn't any reason why this one should be any different.

Still, by the same logic, there probably wouldn't be much distinction between Edgeworth's annoyance at having ten missed calls left on his phone versus eleven. The driver's expression shifted from subtle concern to subtle annoyance, but Phoenix ignored it as a small family brushed past him in order to board in his place.

A jolt ran through him when the ringing had cut off after two rounds, meaning someone had picked up.

"Edge--"

"_Hey!_"

The voice that cut him off was so loud and so different than the one Phoenix expected that his cell phone nearly slipped out of his fingers and on to the pavement. "Mr. Edgeworth is trying to get some _rest_, and that's pretty hard when his phone is ringing every _five minutes_, pal! What's so important?"

_Detective Gumshoe?_

"Rest?" A vision of Edgeworth's sickly demeanor from last night popped into Phoenix's head. The tension he'd felt all evening began to recede. _I guess that explains why he didn't answer. Still, if he was feeling that bad he should have just called me and gone home._

"Yeah, pal!" Gumshoe huffed. "What else would he be doing? We've been at the hospital for…"

_What?_

"What?" He felt his tongue working, the word heavy—_wrong_—against his lips, as though the sounds were arranged the wrong way, with too many syllables dividing them. "…Hospital?"

"Yeah, pal, that's what I said. Mr. Edgeworth and I..."

The rest of what Gumshoe said receded into a faint buzz in Phoenix's ear.

"What happened?!" For brief second, everything around him blurred. He was dimly aware of the passerby's nearby turning to stare at him, then pointedly turning away, as though they might catch his obvious insanity through eye contact.

Reluctance seeped into Gumshoe's voice. "Uh, well... I don't think I should…I mean, I know you and Mr. Edgeworth aren't on a case or anything, but I don't know if he'd appreciate me dropping all this personal information, pal," he said.

Phoenix felt his grip on the phone tighten painfully, knuckles whitening as he struggled to find the proper words that would get him what he wanted instead of a dial tone in his ear.

"Just…" He swallowed. _If I have to beg, fine_. "If he gets upset, I'll take the blame. At least tell me why he's there. _Please_."

There was a brief tick of silence over the other end; just enough time for a puzzled blink or two.

"Well, if you're gonna get that upset about it... some part of his stomach burst. His, uh…" There was a murmur over the line that told Phoenix someone else was talking in the background. "Yeah, that's it! His appendix. It exploded, pal!"

Phoenix felt his own stomach respond with a sickening lurch, like he'd accidentally boarded a rollercoaster instead of the bus he'd intended. Several moments passed before he felt like he could speak without being sick all over the sidewalk. Meanwhile, the bus had closed its doors directly in his face and hurtled down the road, spewing thick exhaust in its wake.

"Why wasn't I--" He stopped himself. Of course Gumshoe wasn't going to call Phoenix to inform him—he had no reason to.

But it seemed even a question half asked was enough for Gumshoe once he'd already committed himself to his boss's breach of privacy. "I was going to call all of Mr. Edgeworth's friends once things got calmed down a little, pal." He sounded a little defensive.

"Is he... I mean... he's not..."

"Whoa, what are _you_ thinking, pal?" Gumshoe asked. "He's in a bad way, got out of surgery not too long ago, but the doctors are saying he should pull through—like I _said,_" pointedly, "if he manages to get his rest, so..."

At that, Phoenix managed to pull himself together enough to register that he was mostly inhaling toxic fumes. He backed away a few paces from the street, where he was in less danger of suffocating or being run over.

"Which hospital?" he managed.

"Huh?"

"Which hospital is—which hospital are you at?"

"Oh, uh, come to think of it... hold on, gimme a second to check--" Phoenix bit back the rising urge to scream. "Ah, okay. Hotti Clinic, pal, but why..."

"I'll be right there," Phoenix said instantly. He ignored Gumshoe's surprised noise and ended the call. He swerved his head to look from one end of the street to the next, scanning for the first approaching taxi he could find.

* * *

Gumshoe met him at the entrance of the Hotti Clinic. "You really didn't have to do this, pal," he said, as Phoenix ran up to meet him, eyes darting back and forth as he spoke, as though he expected his boss to pop out of the surrounding foliage any second. No doubt he was wondering exactly how much talking to Phoenix Wright would cost him out of his rent this week. 

"Whoa," he added, startled, upon getting a better look at Phoenix, who was panting and nearly doubled over; it had been a decent sprint from where the taxi had left him off to the entrance here. "Take a minute to catch your breath, pal! I know you must be worried, but I told you, they're saying he'll be okay..."

Phoenix didn't reply; the pounding of blood through his ears seemed muffle the words, as though they were being spoken to him through a wall. Gumshoe fell into step a few paces behind as Phoenix recovered enough to walk hurriedly into the hospital waiting room. He briefly took note of the people scattered throughout the mostly empty rows of chairs, the majority of them reading or sleeping quietly, before he fixed his attention on reception desk to the right. He stopped just in front of counter. The nurse manning the station continued filing her nails as though he wasn't even there.

"Excuse me," he said. His voice came out hoarse.

She glanced up, blinking once before bending back down to attack the edge of her pinky with a relish she clearly didn't have for her job.

"I'm here to visit Miles Edgeworth," he said, his foot tapping. It did little to relieve him of his nervous energy. S_ome time within the next decade, if it's not too much trouble..._

The nurse sighed, in apparent resignation to the fact that ignoring him wasn't going to make him go away, and placed the file on the counter as she pulled the keyboard closer to the edge of the desk. Every action she took seemed, to Phoenix's perception, as though it were being filtered through slow-motion. "How do you spell that?"

"Exactly how it sounds." Perhaps some of his irritated impatience was seeping through, because the stare she gave him in return was bordering on hostile.

"Pretend I'm deaf," she said.

"E-d-g-e-w-o-r-t-h," he spelled. His nails dug into the palms of his hands. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Gumshoe still looking at him strangely, as though he had grown another head.

"And you are?" she said after a few quick keystrokes.

"Huh?"

"He just got out of surgery a couple of hours ago. The only people allowed to visit are family," she clarified with a roll of her eyes. "And don't lie. I'll need to see some form of identification before I can give out the room number."

_Family? _This particular complication hadn't occurred to Phoenix on the way here, and now that it was thrust in front of his face, the world around him seemed to flicker strangely, dizzyingly, at the idea of trying to untangle it.

"I'm his…" Phoenix stopped. Abruptly, it seemed like Detective Gumshoe was too close, crowding behind him uncomfortably even though he was pretty sure the taller man hadn't moved an inch. He swallowed briefly and looked down for a moment. His badge gleamed dully under the artificial light. _I'm..._

"I'm his…lawyer?" he tried weakly.

"And I'm the director of this clinic," she parried instantly.

_Actually, I think he's off in the corner harassing that blonde with the huge breasts_. Phoenix grimaced and shook his head, both hands coming down on the desk, more forcefully than what was probably appropriate. The nurse's lips thinned as her pens leapt from their cup holder.

Desperation bleeding audibly into his voice, he began, "Look, can we just skip this and get to the--"

"He's with me, pal," Gumshoe suddenly interjected with authority, moving to stand beside Phoenix at the counter. The moment was somewhat marred by the extended pause as the detective dug around in the pockets of his trenchcoat before he located his badge and brandished it with a flourish. "Police business."

She gave it a once-over flick of the eyes.

"Room 307," she replied. "Visiting hours end in about thirty minutes, so make it snappy."

"Sure thing!" he heard Gumshoe say distantly in the background; Phoenix was too busy moving towards the stairwell, as though his legs had a mind of their own. His breath came in short, rapid bursts, rattling against his ribcage, in an effort to keep up. And then, even fainter behind him: "Hey, wait up, pal! It's not like he's going anywhere!"

* * *

A distant part of Phoenix had hoped—after he'd gotten over the initial shock of 'Edgeworth' and 'hospital' in the same sentence—that upon entering Edgeworth's hospital room, he'd be greeted with the almost amusing sight of the High Prosecutor chafing at being confined to a bed and suffering the indignity of a seasick-green hospital gown. 

The only thing that had lived up to his wish was the color of the gown.

As soon as he stepped past the threshold, the entire room seemed to expand. Then, without warning, it contracted around him with a force that pushed the air out of his lungs and left him unable to focus on anything but the hospital bed and the body recumbent within it.

Edgeworth had always been sallow, but never this sickly, waxen color that made him look as though all the blood had been drained from his body. And Phoenix had gotten used to the circles under Edgeworth's eyes that signified one too many late nights at the Prosecutor's Office in the months they'd been together, but here, the dark puffiness was so pronounced and stark, it seemed his eyes were sunken into his sockets. That, coupled with the jutting cheekbones and the cracked, colorless lips gave the impression that, far from being convalescent, the next breath might be his last.

_He could have died_. Phoenix felt the knowledge radiating from his heart like ice water pumping through his body instead of blood, dispatching bitter numbness to the very tips of his fingers; down his legs, leaving a trail of shuddering weakness in his knees; and pooling around his feet like cement. _He could have _died.

_I wouldn't have even known. _Somehow, that was the worst part of it.

He took a halting step towards the bed only to be jerked back by Gumshoe's loud exclamation, "Whoa there, pal! The doctors said Mr. Edgeworth needed rest, remember? If you have to ask him about something, you can do it tomorrow."

_That's not…_ He swallowed. "I won't disturb him. Just, let me…"

_Let me…_

Gumshoe made a small, impatient noise as Phoenix walked forward, but didn't attempt to stop him again. He resisted the urge to brush Edgeworth's bangs from his face when he made it to the side of the bed, stilling his hands by grasping the metal railing instead. He stood for a long while, just watching Edgeworth's chest move slowly rise and fall, trying to will his own heart to the same leisurely pace.

Edgeworth's eyelashes fluttered, and then, a glimpse of dark eyes made unfamiliar by dilation, the customary grey almost completely overtaken by black. Something underneath Phoenix's lungs seemed to jump when Edgeworth's brow furrowed in a motion of confusion, lips moving faintly.

The expected words never came, not even in a faint undertone. Edgeworth's forehead smoothed itself, his eyes closed, and his head fell slightly to right as sleep swallowed him once again.

Behind him, Detective Gumshoe cleared his throat. Phoenix forced his fingers from their grip on the rail, and trudged back to where the detective was waiting at the door.

"See what I mean?" Gumshoe whispered. The words came out in a low rush, unused to being pressed down to a lower volume. "They've got him so doped up he probably didn't even recognize you!"

Phoenix wanted to protest, but the idea of fending off another one of Gumshoe's '_are you feeling okay, pal?'_ looks was too much to bear at this point in time. He allowed the detective to steer him from the room, stopping only for one last glimpse before Gumshoe pulled the door quietly shut.

In direct contrast to Phoenix's earlier dash, Gumshoe had to wait for Phoenix to catch up several times as they navigated the bright, labyrinthine halls. It was to the detective's credit that he didn't get annoyed at Phoenix's plodding pace. Even though he didn't know the situation, it seemed that he was doing his best to be quietly considerate in regards to Phoenix's perturbed mood.

_Edgeworth was fine this morning…_ Not exactly fine; Phoenix still remembered the way the prosecutor's back had stiffened slightly as he bent over to retrieve his briefcase, but nothing near the point of requiring hospitalization.

"How did this happen?" He hadn't meant to speak out loud, but Gumshoe paused and turned towards him.

"You've got me, pal. I heard Mr. Edgeworth was feeling under the weather a few days ago, but I figured it was just a bug."

"Yeah, with everything going around..." Phoenix said vaguely, trying to pry his thoughts from where he had left them in Edgeworth's room and focus on something else.

"I got real concerned when he called in sick the next day. It's just not like Mr. Edgeworth to miss work…" Gumshoe scratched the back of his head. "I could tell he was still feeling lousy when I went to give him my report today, but I never expected him to stand up and ask me to drive him to the hospital!"

"Wait, you were the one that took him?" Phoenix blinked. His mental image had been Edgeworth collapsing and ambulances racing—the whole nine yards.

"Yeah, I nearly got pulled over getting here!" Gumshoe exclaimed. Several nurses stopped and shot them a universal irritated stare before continuing on with their tasks at hand. "Too bad my car doesn't have a siren—it would have come in handy. Mr. Edgeworth was gritting his teeth and mumbling 'it hurts, it hurts' over and over and over again…I've never seen him like that before."

"I can only imagine," Phoenix said quietly. _I should have known something was wrong last night. No one throws up like that just from a sip of water…_

With a start, he realized they had somehow made it back to the entrance. Gumshoe shifted back and forth, as though he wasn't quite sure if leaving Phoenix in this despondent state was the right thing to do, but clearly wanting to extradite himself from the awkward conversation.

Finally, he decided: "Sorry to run like this, pal, but they're probably wondering what happened to me. I called them on the way, but I didn't really get the chance to explain what was going on."

"I'll see you around, Detective," Phoenix said. "Uh, thanks. For your help today, I mean."

"Oh, no problem, pal!" Gumshoe beamed like a dog having been given a juicy bone.

_I guess he doesn't hear that very often_, Phoenix thought as he watched the detective trot away. Before he could reach the doors, Gumshoe suddenly pivoted back and rushed back towards where Phoenix was standing, next to the reception area.

"Before I forget--" he reached past the partition and snagged a pencil and a scrap of paper between thick fingers. "—I'll go ahead and make sure everyone knows what's going on, but I'd appreciate it if you could take care of this one for me…last time we talked, I, uh…"

He pushed the slip of folded paper into Phoenix's hands and hurried away without even waiting for his reply.

_What was that all about?_ Phoenix unfolded the slip of paper and flinched as the words "Prosecutor von Karma", accompanied by a scrawled telephone number directly underneath, stared up at him balefully.

* * *

The clatter of the keys falling from his hands to the cold concrete of the floor created a rattling echo that flung its way down the entirety of the stairwell. Phoenix exhaled slowly, blinking slowly amidst the darkness—something must have gone wrong with the building's electricity again—and bent down to search blindly until his fingers closed back around the shape of the metal ring binding the keys together. 

He straightened and focused on what he was actually doing as he experimented until he managed to successfully locate the one that unlocked his apartment door.

The first thing that hit him as he stepped through was that the air was unpleasantly stale. He crossed over to the kitchen—the remnants of the night before last's dinner, a mishmash of pizza and macaroni, was still stagnating in the sink, completely forgotten.

Still, dealing with it was better than staying fixated on his own lingering helplessness at the memory of Edgeworth's pale face in the hospital room, simultaneously right before him and a thousand miles away.

He turned the faucet on to start doing the dishes, and shut it off a second later, exhaling slowly. The water slid in a strange, surreal gloss off the grimy plates and down the drain.

_He'll be fine. He's going to be fine. _

_He's still going to be there tomorrow._

Fifteen minutes later, with the last glass put away and his hands raw from scrubbing too hard to get rid of the last bits of sauce clinging stubbornly to the plate, he withdrew back into the living room, emptying his phone and wallet from his pocket in preparation of a much-needed collapse on the couch. From the wallet fluttered a small, tattered piece of paper—the one Gumshoe had frantically, conspiratorially pressed into his hand before fleeing from its wake.

_Franziska..._

He plucked it between his fingers, frowning. It had been years, but he was pretty sure he still had scars from the lashings she had given him when they had last encountered each other. Even with the assurance that there would be thousands of miles of physical distance between them, it was difficult not to feel some measure of aversion at inviting contact with her again.

_Still, I guess it's the right thing to do..._

Sighing—_Edgeworth would want her to know—_he punched in the numbers on the memo. It felt as though the only meaningful thing he could remember ever doing was making calls.

As the distant ringing stretched on against his ear, he let himself thrive, briefly, on the hope that the German prosecutor probably wouldn't answer a call from someone she didn't recognize. He might even be lucky enough to be welcomed into the sanctuary of her voice mail—but those hopes were rapidly crushed when the responding click went off against his ear, followed by a crisp female voice.

"Franziska von Karma speaking. Who is this?"

_Here we go._ At least she hadn't answered in German.

"Franziska," Phoenix said. "It's Phoenix—Phoenix Wright."

"Phoenix Wright?"

She sounded genuinely flabbergasted, but it didn't take long until she slid back into the same Franziska he remembered so keenly, speaking with a smug self-assuredness thick enough to drown a man even over the telephone.

"So, come to challenge me again at last? Well, you'll find I'm more than up to the task, Mr. Phoenix Wright, so you had better prepare--"

"No," Phoenix cut in, as quickly as he could, "No, no, no. It's not like that—hey, listen to me!"

"--saturated with the inevitable cowardice that you've been--_what?_"

"I'm not interested in a challenge," Phoenix said. _And it's not like trials are supposed to be competitions anyway; shouldn't you know that by now?_ "It's about Edgeworth."

"...Miles Edgeworth?"

Something low and wary entered her voice; it was only at the rare times when they talked about Edgeworth that Phoenix seemed to remember that Franziska von Karma was also a person who had grown up under the shadow of her father, and didn't just exist as a painful caricature with a whip.

"What did you do?"

_Excuse me?_

"_I_ didn't do anything," Phoenix said, "but listen—he's in the hospital."

He waited for her hysteric retort, echoing his own outburst when Gumshoe had relayed the same information to him, but there was only terse silence over the line—and he realized she was waiting for him to tell her more. Franziska displaying restraint was definitely a rare novelty.

"It's not bad," Phoenix continued. "I mean, uh, it is bad, obviously, since he's there in the first place, but he'll be fine. He's through the worst of it. Apparently he came down with appendicitis, but he had surgery and it was fine. Things are fine."

If he was expecting some sort of sisterly relief expressed at his clumsy attempts to assure her of the stability of Edgeworth's condition, limited in vocabulary as they were, he was sorely disappointed.

"Is he there? Let me speak to him."

_You could let me answer the question before making demands..._

"No, I just got back from visiting him. But just, I figured you should know..."

There was another long pause. It was the type that Phoenix thought he had moved past enduring with Edgeworth and never really foresaw himself having to deal with from his younger sister.

Finally, neutrally: "I see."

Phoenix frowned, trying to gauge her tone. "Like I said, he should be okay. Don't worry."

"Who's worried?" she said, airily.

_Oh, right. Let me guess—a proper von Karma would never allow himself to be handicapped by something as trifling as a part of his stomach rupturing..._

"Well, if there's anything you want me to tell him..."

"Don't be absurd," she cut in. "I don't recall ever requesting _your_ services as a go-between myself and _my_ little brother."

_Excuse me for trying to help!_

"I will call him_personally_," she announced, with an inflection that Phoenix thought suggested murder more than concern.

"Last I saw, Gumshoe had his phone, so--"

"I'll manage."

_Okay then..._

Phoenix fidgeted, feeling as though the pressure was on him to somehow drive the terse exchange to an end, but then something else occurred to him.

"So are you, uh, flying out?" he asked. "Here, I mean."

"Why should I?" she snapped. "If, as you've taken the care to emphasize so much, he's going to be fine."

_You were ready to fly over to challenge me, but not when Edgeworth's in the hospital?_ The dynamics of the ways the von Karma family expressed affection for each other would forever be a mystery to him, Phoenix supposed.

"Just asking."

Franziska snorted.

"Don't waste my time again," she said, "until you're ready to settle the score."

"I'll, uh, do my best."

He hung up the phone quickly—that seemed as good an opportunity that would come to wrap things up—and wondered with a sigh if he had any headache medicine lying around. Anything to relieve the particularly sharp throbbing in his temple that was entirely unique to dealing with Franziska—the memories of it had become blessedly dim in the years since their last separation, but it was recalled with full force now, like a forgotten specter dragged back into his life.

* * *

He woke up intermittently about four times through the night, all with a great deal of twisting and turning. For most of his life, Phoenix had considered himself a sound sleeper no matter how dire his prospects seemed for the next morning. Then, the circumstances of Engarde's trial were enough to prove him wrong; he had tucked Pearl in that evening, he remembered, and spent the rest of the night alternating between futile attempts at resting his eyes on the couch and pacing the hallways in an equally futile attempt to calm his frayed nerves. 

It wasn't as bad now as it was then, but enough unease prickled down the length of his body and into his fingertips to make it impossible to get comfortable. The last fifteen minutes before the visiting hours at the hospital opened again were spent staring across his pillow as his cell phone ticked away the minutes. He'd shut the alarm off half an hour ago, as it became apparent there wasn't any further point in keeping it on.

A quick shower and a toss of clothes later—he found he didn't really have the stomach to eat anything solid—he was back out the door and, a taxi-ride through terrible rush hour traffic later, back pushing his way through white doors to confront a rather cynical-looking nurse. It was a different woman, but apparently the same appraising half-scowl was a job requirement amongst the staff here.

"He's been a rather popular guest," she said, directing him to the room.

_Practically collapsing at the office like that... there must be a lot of people checking in on him..._

Still, he couldn't resist asking. "Popular?"

"I'm pretty sure you're the forth or fifth person in here to see..." Another flip of the clipboard, "Mr. Miles Edgeworth." The nurse gave him a pointed look. "Visiting hours started an hour ago."

_Forth or fifth? One of them was probably Gumshoe, but..._

There was something uncomfortable about that lackluster relegation, especially juxtaposed with the fresh memories of counting off passing minutes and trying to keep himself from outright sprinting out of the taxi's backseat--but he pushed it aside. The important thing was seeing how Edgeworth was.

Edgeworth was sitting up when the nurse opened the door to let Phoenix in, and at the sight of him conscious, an odd, rather high-pitched sort of thrill played in Phoenix's throat that he barely managed to suppress against his lips. He was still a shade too pale for Phoenix's comfort—in fact, his complexion rather reminded Phoenix of his own reflection in the aftermath of his tumble down into the depths of Eagle River during the incident with Iris—but he was _conscious, _and Phoenix figured that that was a good enough start for him, considering his condition barely ten hours before. He let his grip on the doorknob relax. Behind him, the nurse quickly excused herself.

A loud clearing of the throat jerked his attention past Edgeworth and to the left of the bed. He blinked in surprise when he realized Edgeworth wasn't alone. A woman with short grey hair—the string of youthful, candy-red barrettes against her right temple did nothing to alleviate the heavy wrinkles around her mouth and jaws—in an unflattering navy blue jumpsuit had gotten up from where she'd been seated next to Edgeworth and was blasting towards the doorway with all the speed and subtlety of a freight train.

_Wait. It can't be… _"It's--"

"—_you_!" Ms. Oldbag finished for him, face growing even more pinched in outrage as she all but shoved Phoenix back into the hallway with the sheer force of her voice. "Hasn't my poor Edgey suffered enough without _you_ coming in to rub salt in the wound? After all he's been through, why would you even think of showing your ugly face to the poor man! Why I remember-back-in-my-dayweusedtohavebettermannersthantoshowuptoplaceswewerentwelcomeuninvitedIswearkids--"

_How did she find out?_ Phoenix thought as the verbal torrent of words burst from the elderly woman's lips, achieving a pitch and speed far beyond his listening comprehension. His eyes met Edgeworth's on the far side of the room in a sort of mute appeal for help, but Edgeworth looked just as stunned as he did.

"If you'd just excuse me--" he began, trying to duck past her into the room. Her arm flew up as unerringly as a signpost. He stepped back into the hallway, at a loss.

"I don't see your name on the list!" she proclaimed with a smirk.

"What list?" he asked, knowing he'd regret it.

"The approved visitors list!" she shot back, waving a—mostly blank, he noticed—sheet of paper in his face.

_You've got to be kidding me._

"How do you get on the list?" he sighed. It seemed easier to just go along and hope this wouldn't take too long.

"That's classified!"

Just glancing at Edgeworth made it obvious this "list" wasn't any of his doing; he looked torn between swallowing outrage and hesitancy to turn the woman's attention over his way again. Phoenix imagined it had grown increasingly difficult to keep up Edgeworth's 'cultured prosecutor' facade as Oldbag's visit had lingered on.

"Okay, so, who else is on the list?" he tried again, reaching to see for himself.

"You're not authorized to receive that information!" She pulled back just as his fingers brushed against the edge of the paper, like a child torturing a dog with a bone. Phoenix took a deep breath and reminded himself that hitting little old ladies was bad form, especially with a prosecutor anal-retentive enough to enforce the assault charges in a hospital bed ten feet away as a witness.

"Who _wrote _the list?" he asked finally. _Bingo_, he thought when Oldbag's eyes widened then suddenly narrowed.

"What's with all the questions?" she started. "Treating a poor young lady like a criminal just because she's--"

"Miss Oldbag?" Edgeworth ventured. Like flipping a switch, she silenced herself and turned to him, nearly skipping over to his side. Phoenix slipped into the room while her attention was diverted.

"Yes, Edgey-poo?" she crooned. Phoenix could see her eyelashes fluttering even from where he was located, fast enough that it looked as though Edgeworth was being pressed into the hospital pillows by the wind they generated instead of a self-imposed retreat.

"I was…wondering," he managed, "if you would mind getting me something to drink. My throat is awfully parched."

"_He_ could get it for you," she said, with a dismissive wave in Phoenix's general direction. "I'm sure there are _other_ things I can help you with. You know what the nurses said about making sure--"

"No, you're the only one I can trust with this," he cut her off with a shudder he couldn't quite suppress. Phoenix wondered what it was the nurses had said, until he saw Edgeworth's eyes flicker towards a portable basin and a sponge on the table next to the bed like a nervous tic. "I'm in the mood for something very special. I doubt Wright could even find the water fountain."

At the word _special_, Oldbag's eyes lit up. "What can I get you, Edgey? Just say the word!"

"I'm really in the mood for some mineral water, but it has to be a special brand. Naïve Minérale. That brand _only_. It _has_ to be that one."

"Don't worry, I won't come back until I find it for you! When you need someone to find something-all-you-havetodoiscallWendyOldbagwhyinmyyouthIusedtobeknownasfinditallWendy--"

"Thank you, Miss Oldbag." Edgeworth managed a sickly smile. He kept it pinned tightly to his face until she rushed from the room. The outraged squawk of a nurse she nearly collided with in her haste to leave filled the air before peace finally descended, along with Edgeworth's grimace.

"Must be tough being so popular," Phoenix remarked.

"Shut up, Wright," Edgeworth replied. The typical edge of Edgeworth's words was somewhat blunted by his soft, distracted tone as he settled into his pillow and closed his eyes. Phoenix thought he could almost see the tension escaping from the prosecutor, like a balloon deflating.

"Won't she be back soon?" Phoenix asked. "Even if you can't get mineral water in the hospital, there's a grocery store just a couple of blocks away."

"Weren't you listening?" Edgeworth shifted, annoyed.

_Don't take it out on me!_ Phoenix thought, _I didn't call her down here…_

Edgeworth continued, letting go of his tension: "I said it's a very special brand. So special it's not sold outside of France."

"I see," Phoenix said, relaxing.

"It was a wild gamble, though. I must be spending too much time with you…" Edgeworth said, after a pause. "I can't actually drink anything…in my condition."

"Why didn't you pretend to go to sleep?" Phoenix asked. "That might have gotten her off your back for a little while."

"I did," Edgeworth said, looking genuinely exhausted. "Whenever I closed my eyes, she leaned over to," he shuddered, "whisper sweet nothings in my ear."

Phoenix crossed the room to settle down into the chair--previously occupied, he supposed, by Oldbag—_not exactly a pleasant correlation—_to Edgeworth's bedside. He blinked—a sharp burst of color that came into view nearby caught his attention.

The tiny table across from his hospital bed bore a surprising assortment of flowers. More specifically, most of that end of the room had been overtaken by a bouquet of roses that towered over the rest like a redwood among saplings. If the excessive size of the gift alone wasn't enough to give away the identity of the sender, the large, heart-shaped tag certainly was.

But there were other vases clustered around the centerpiece—including one tied with a purple and black ribbon that briefly caught Phoenix's eye, and another with flowers so yellow that it nearly hurt to look directly at them. The only one, aside from Oldbag's, whose sender he could tell at a glance was the one in an oversized plastic mug, with an uneven heaping of botanical bounty he couldn't identify—but looked suspiciously similar to the flowers planted in the front of the police station.

_I guess it's the thought that counts, huh? Come to think of it, I didn't even bring anything at all_… Phoenix tried to console himself with mentally pointing out that even if he had brought something, there wouldn't have been room for it. It rang slightly hollow. _I'll bring something tomorrow_, he promised.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Better," Edgeworth said. "Aside from the obvious." He jerked his head in the direction of the door.

Hearing the sardonic tilt to his voice, raspy and tired though it might have been, provided better reassurance to Phoenix than any of his own weak attempts for Franziska the night previous. His smile widened.

"You don't look so well yourself," Edgeworth went on to note.

"Rough night," Phoenix admitted.

"Detective Gumshoe did inform me a little about that. He told me you were acting 'real strange, pal' in your rush to get here." The last part of the sentence had an inquisitive tilt to it. .

"Strange?" Phoenix echoed.

Edgeworth's eyebrows quirked. "Thirty missed calls?"

Phoenix winced. _It was twenty—no, fifteen at most... though I guess that doesn't actually sound that much better..._

"Well," he mumbled, staring down into his hands, "I was worried."

Edgeworth looked at him for a long moment, the ghost of a frown touching his lips, and then said, "I'm sorry."

_Huh?_ Phoenix blinked. "It's not like it was your fault..."

"No," Edgeworth said. "I was irresponsible..."

"I don't think there's a way you could have known," Phoenix said. _Not that I'm an expert on appendicitis, but..._ He added, "You're too hard on yourself." _You always have been._

Edgeworth shrugged, looking less than convinced. Phoenix decided it was probably best to just let it go—if there was one thing he had learned about the prosecutor over the years, it was that when he had his mind set on blaming himself for something, no matter how irrational, it was nearly impossible to convince him otherwise.

"I called Franziska, by the way," he said. Changing the subject seemed like the best option. "Last night. To let her know what happened."

"I'm aware," Edgeworth said. "She managed to reach me this morning, before permitted hours. The nurse who transferred the call was reduced to tears, as I recall."

_Typical Franziska._"I hope she was in a better mood talking to you than she was to me."

"I don't know exactly what she said to you," Edgeworth said, dryly, "but I would have to say I find that unlikely."

"Ouch." Phoenix winced. "Well, she must have been glad to hear you were okay."

"In her way, yes."

"So... is she coming here?"

"Why would she?" Edgeworth asked. "It isn't as though my life is in danger."

Phoenix opened his mouth to respond with something about_ his_ still being here, seeing as that was generally the thing that was done when a loved one was hospitalized, but thought better of it.

Still, Edgeworth seemed to settle a little more comfortable back against the pillow, resting one hand over his lap and letting the other drape over the side of the bed's railing, eyes focused on Phoenix.

"Did you make any other calls?"

"Huh?" The question threw him. _Who else would I have called?_ "No... Gumshoe probably had the rest of that taken care of, right? He just didn't want to deal with, uh, her."

Phoenix wasn't sure why the pause that followed felt as heavy as it did. Edgeworth had that look about him—when there was something he was hoping Phoenix would understand without forcing him to actually verbalize it.

"I see."

Whatever it was, it was beyond Phoenix's comprehension, and he found he didn't have the energy to try to pry through Edgeworth's reluctant barriers at the moment—he was tired and still grappling with the transition from anxiety into relief.

"So... you're going to be all right?"

"With about a projected week's stay here, yes," Edgeworth said. "I can't say I'm thrilled about it. The backlog at the office is going to be a nightmare."

_And, of course, that's your main concern about this entire mess..._

"It could be worse," Phoenix offered.

"You don't have to tell me that."

_No, I guess I don't._

As the morning slipped into afternoon, a nurse came to the room. She seemed cheerful enough compared to her coworkers downstairs, especially considering the smile on her face and the chirp in her voice as she fluttered around Edgeworth like some large, white bird. No matter how far her grin stretched, though, it was hard to ignore the pliers and what looked to be a large syringe in her hand. Just as Phoenix was trying to think of a way to excuse himself from the room without being obvious—he wasn't sure he wanted to be around for this—his stomach gurgled a complaint.

"I think I'm going to go grab something to eat really quick," he said, his chair screeching against the tile as he stood up a little too quickly.

Judging by Edgeworth's deadpan expression, Phoenix hadn't quite accomplished that whole 'not being obvious' thing, but he didn't say a word as Phoenix left him to the tender mercies of the nurse.

It took Phoenix a good fifteen minutes to figure out where the cafeteria was located—all the hallways tended to blend into one another, and there wasn't a single sign to let him know whether he was on the right track or about to hit another dead end.

It wasn't exactly the most welcoming place either; most of the space was taken up by long stainless steel rows, where people could choose between some sort of meat-product with congealed fat jiggling on the surface like clear gelatin or an equally unappetizing glop of watery, orange macaroni and cheese. Then on the other side of the room, a sad assortment of lopsided chairs and wobbly tables huddled in the corner along with a small selection of men and women in scrubs, chewing their food with all the enthusiasm of a cow masticating cud.

Phoenix walked over to the stuttering freezer unit and picked out a prepackaged turkey sandwich—all the other choices looked, to him, like they would land him in a hospital bed himself. After paying a price that made airport food seem like a bargain in comparison, he managed to locate both a relatively stable chair and table.

The turkey was dry and the bread tasted like damp mayonnaise-flavored foam rubber. He ate it all and licked his fingers when he was done for good measure.

_Was the last time I ate really yesterday?_ It must have been for something this excruciatingly bad to taste so good. He considered buying another sandwich, but both his wallet and his head protested in equally loud measure. Now that his stomach wasn't trying to kill and digest his lungs, that prickling sensation of unease was back in full force—an itch that wouldn't go away until he was back upstairs again.

_Come on,_ he told himself, _nothing's going to happen while I'm gone_.

When he made it back, the door was closed. It had been open when he left. Irrationally, he debated for a moment before grasping the handle and pushing it open—only to stop short at the sound of another voice.

"…we think these fingerprints will prove to be pivotal in--" The stranger left off in mid sentence as soon as he heard the click of the latch, turning to stare at Phoenix.

_Reporting a case? _Phoenix thought, incredulous_. Here, like this?_

"Should I…" the detective—or so Phoenix assumed—began.

"No, please continue," Edgeworth said, both cutting him off and dismissing Phoenix from the room in a single sentence.

Phoenix ducked back into the hall and leaned against the wall. _Well... it can't take that long, can it?_

Twenty minutes later, the leaning had become more of an irritated slouch. He let out a half-hearted groan when another man, this time in a navy-blue officer uniform, came into view. He held a slip of paper in his hand that he thrust up to his thick, round glasses in between peering at the door numbers. When he finally made it to where Phoenix was standing, he asked, "Is this the line for Mr. Edgeworth's room?"

_I guess it is now_, Phoenix thought. "Go ahead, I was planning on sitting down anyway."

"Oh, thank you very much!" The officer replied, looking as though Phoenix had made his morning, noon, and night when Phoenix vacated the spot and relocated to the bench along the end of the hallway.

It proved to be the perfect vantage point to watch the steady flow of police officers of various rank trickle in and out of Room 307. The shortest visit was a record breaking thirty seconds—when the man had come out, he looked torn between bursting into tears and kicking a line of holes in the wall—while the longest were about thirty minutes on average. Phoenix had a sneaking suspicion he was getting a firsthand look at what a typical day at Edgeworth's office looked like—something he'd find exhausting even on a good day.

_Is he holding up okay...?_

"Hey, pal!" Phoenix nearly jumped at the familiar voice from behind. He turned to the right, where Gumshoe was standing, inspecting the scene. "Waiting to see Mr. Edgeworth? You should have gotten here earlier."

"Mmm," Phoenix mumbled noncommittally.

"Looks like he's pretty popular—I even heard a group of nurses talking about him on my way up."

"Yeah," Phoenix said, with considerably less enthusiasm than the detective. He changed the subject: "Are you here to give a report too?"

"Nah, I just happened to be in the area and decided to stop in and see how Mr. Edgeworth was doing." Gumshoe said with a lopsided grin. Before Phoenix could warn him, he'd already clomped over to the room, past the two officers currently waiting, and stuck his head inside. If his sudden jolt and tensing of shoulders was any sign, Edgeworth didn't exactly welcome the interruption with open arms—and if that had been in doubt, the sheepish way the detective scratched the back of his head when he returned over to where Phoenix was sitting dispelled the last of it.

"Wow, that's Mr. Edgeworth for you! Not even exploding internal organs can keep him down!"

_He looked pretty exhausted to me_, Phoenix thought. His chest still tightened at the mention of 'explosions' and 'internal organs'.

"I guess it just goes to show you there's always something worse, pal. I thought I was going to die when I caught that flu that was going around a few weeks back. I couldn't even _move_ for three days. Even after Maggey was nice enough to make me an extra large batch of her five-alarm 'Put the Pep Back in Your Step' chicken noodle soup, I couldn't take more than one bite."

"The nausea was that bad?" Phoenix asked. _No wonder Edgeworth thought he had it_…

"No, it felt like my tongue was on fire!" Gumshoe exclaimed. "Weirdest flu symptoms I've ever had, pal, that's for sure."

_Uh, I don't think that was from the flu!_

"But, yeah, and that was just the flu! I don't even want to think about how Mr. Edgeworth must have been feeling, how much pain he must have been in…"

Something cold and icy trickled through Phoenix's lungs, making it hard to breathe for a moment.

"It was pretty terrifying, seeing him like that. Mr. Edgeworth is a really sensitive guy, but he's actually got a high pain threshold. There was one time I accidentally smacked him in the face with a ladder, and he filled out the pay reduction form without even _flinching_, even with all that blood gushing down his forehead--"

"Sorry, Detective Gumshoe," Phoenix said, cutting him off. "I think I'm going to go take a quick walk. My legs are falling asleep."

Once he reached the opposite end of the hallway, before he turned the corner, he stole a glance to make sure Gumshoe didn't get any more bright ideas, like trying to follow him. A running commentary on the various injuries Edgeworth had sustained over the years was one of the last things he wanted to hear right now. But, instead, the tall detective just seemed slightly puzzled, brow furrowing momentarily before he shrugged and walked to the other side of the hall to talk to his coworkers.

Phoenix wandered aimlessly until he was sure Edgeworth's visitors would be gone. The empty hallway that greeted him upon his return bore out his theory, as did the bare-except-for-Edgeworth-himself room when he opened the door again.

Edgeworth looked worse than he had that morning. Where before, when someone entered the room, he'd maneuver himself into a sitting position, now he just barely cracked his eyelids when he heard the door open.

Phoenix settled back into the chair next to the bed.

"Is it over?" he ventured after a few minutes of silence.

Edgeworth didn't open his eyes. "I certainly hope so."

"It's not going to be like this every day, is it?"

"No, probably not," Edgeworth replied. He paused to wet his lips. "It appears the office hasn't gotten around to reassigning my cases yet."

"Still, coming to give reports in the hospital seems a bit much…"

"It doesn't make sense to give them to someone uninvolved in the investigations, and we can't exactly freeze everything in place for a week because of my own carelessness."

"Couldn't they just call?"

"Detective Gumshoe seems to have misplaced my phone…" Edgeworth trailed off, finishing the thought with a shake of the head.

Silence descended.

Phoenix shifted his weight in the chair, letting his hands fold in front of him. "...you know, we missed the play."

Edgeworth's line of sight had drifted to the far window; it fell squarely back on Phoenix.

"I completely forgot," he admitted.

"So did I," Phoenix said.

"I kept you waiting, I suppose."

_And down about ten fifty in coffee and taxi fare, but nevermind that. _"Don't worry about it."

"You could still see it," Edgeworth murmured. "There's more than one showing. You don't have to stay here."

Phoenix shook his head. "Don't be stupid."

"But if you..."

"I said not to worry about it. Like I said, it's not like it's really your fault. There'll be other times."

"Yes..." Edgeworth said. His voice was almost thoughtful. "You're right."

Lacking further conversation, they settled into a familiar quiet. It wasn't a bad thing, Phoenix figured—probably more conductive to recovery. He found that exchanging small talk with Edgeworth wasn't really necessary for him to want to be here anyway.

As time passed, Edgeworth's breathing slowed to an even pace that signified, if not sleep, then at least a comfortable doze. A smile touched Phoenix's lips. Unbidden, he reached out and let his fingertips brush against the outline of the other man's knuckles.

The door flew open with a bang and the bulb of light exploded from behind. Phoenix wasn't sure whether he or Edgeworth's hands snapped back first, as though they had been burnt. The voice, shrill with triumph and thick with a familiar Southern accent, rattled against both of their ears a quarter of a second after the flash finished its sweep over them.

"_Gotcha,_ rock star!"

A moment passed. It was silent enough that Phoenix could hear the sound of the nearby clock ticking away the seconds. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edgeworth pushing himself into something like a sitting position, and with an internal lurch Phoenix found he felt ill enough in that instant to consider committing himself to the bed adjacent to the prosecutor.

"Hey," Lotta noted, perturbed, lowering her camera in a gesture of honest bewilderment. Her eyes darted to the left, then to the right, then to the ceiling—as though whatever she was searching for would manifest itself if she just looked hard enough. "This ain't right..."

Edgeworth heaved a world-weary sigh. Phoenix felt his own insides fold over in a strange, acidic blend of relief and exasperation. Lotta apparently didn't notice, because she was still ranting in unimpeded indignation to herself.

"That nurse _swore_ up and down—" the Southern photographer stamped her foot. "--doggone it, nobody fibs like that from _my_ part of the country, I'll tell ya that! You city folk, couldn't learn to talk straight to save yer lives..."

Edgeworth's expression could have made one think the man had just swallowed a vat of lemon juice. "It wasn't a lie. He already left. _Hours_ ago."

Phoenix's eyes darted to him briefly, almost curious.

"Aw, _darn_ it," Lotta sighed, forcing a frustrated hand into her glob of hair, "I thought I had him for sure this time! And if he's at a hospital, I figured, it's got to be a real juicy story, being a _hospital_ and all..." She blinked. "Hey, this _is_ a hospital, ain't it? What the heck are _you_ doin' here, Edgeworth?"

_Astute as ever,_ Phoenix noted.

"I would think," Edgeworth said, "that would be fairly obvious to anyone with eyes."

Lotta scratched her head, as though she wasn't sure whether to be offended or not—before diverting the problem altogether by rounding on Phoenix in a jump of exaggerated surprise.

"Oh, hey, if it ain't Phoenix on top o' that! Since when did you get here?"

_I've been here the whole time!_

"What, you two workin' together on a case again?" Lotta asked, fiddling with the camera strap around her neck.

"No," Phoenix said. "It's not like that..."

"Huh," she said, vaguely. "Well, you sure look in a bad way, Edgeworth. Stress get to ya at last? Some murderer you tryin' to nail strike back?" She blinked, mulling further over the idea. "Now _there'd_ be a story. I mean, yer kind of a rock star all by your lonesome these days yourself, ain'tcha, prosecutor? All the press 'bout you and your sordid, under-the-table dealings..."

"What?" Edgeworth said.

The gleam in Lotta's eyes had shifted from astute disappointment to that of a predatory hawk. "Lots of people'd love to take a shot at ya, goes the rumor mill. So what went down to land ya here as an invalid? Did they hit ya outside the courthouse? Come on, share a coupla details and I'll run with the rest--"

"Lotta," Phoenix said, but it was a futile attempt. She plucked a notepad from her jacket, already taking furious notes, darting knowing glances at Edgeworth, who was looking less and less amused with each passing second.

"Ooh, don't tell me it's the--" she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, "_Cadaverini_ varmints? Papers've been going wild about them last couple o' weeks, nasty pieces o' work--"

"I'm not even connected with that case," Edgeworth said, speaking very slowly, as though if he enunciated firmly enough, he could force comprehension onto the woman.

"Yeah," Lotta said, not to be dissuaded, "that's what they _say, _but they _say_ a lot of things.. they _said_ you went and kicked the bucket a coupla years back, and they _said_ what's his name offed your pop all that time ago, but--"

Edgeworth's mouth opened again, then closed.

Phoenix rose from his chair.

"All right, that's enough," he announced, hoping a firm hand on the shoulder would be sufficient to steer Lotta decisively from the premises.

"_What's_ enough?" Lotta huffed, flapping the loose pages of the notepad against Phoenix's nose. "I still got questions to ask! I got journalistic integrity to maintain! C'mon, be straight with me! Who put a hit on ya, Edgeworth!?"

Edgeworth, by all appearances, was busy drowning out the sound of her voice by counting the number of circles engraved on the ceiling above, jaw tense and hands tight around the bed sheets.

With a fair amount of effort, and lots of squawking, Phoenix finally managed to get Lotta to the doorway, managed a hasty goodbye, and closed the door in her face. He pressed his full weight against it until he could be sure of the sound of annoyed, retreating footsteps peppered with a fair amount of distinctly Southern curses.

He turned back to face the other man, caught between three separate impulses still trying to untangle themselves from one another within his mind.

_What was that all about, anyway?_

"Uh, rock star?" he inquired, somewhat weakly, figuring that was likely to be the least offensive of his conversational options.

"Don't ask," Edgeworth said. "I'd rather not be reminded."

That did little to satisfy Phoenix's curiosity, but it probably wasn't a good idea to continue provoking Edgeworth when he was still pale and confined to the hospital bed—not to mention probably still stewing over the unwelcome reminder of DL-6. So the silence fell back on them again.

There wasn't much, Phoenix knew, with some despondence, that he could offer about the incident that had taken Edgeworth's father from him that he hadn't already said or done. So as he settled back into his chair, his thoughts slid instead back to the near heart attack he'd suffered at the burst of light that had shattered the comfortable silence that had taken so long to attain—and the cold sweat that had congealed against his hands before Lotta confirmed she didn't find anything particularly amiss in what she saw besides the lack of her unknown target.

It wasn't something he particularly wanted to define the implications of.

But his eyes fell onto Edgeworth's hand, still pale and looking oddly vulnerable and out of place against the steel railing of the hospital bed.

Phoenix swallowed heavily. He wanted to take it, but he held back.

* * *

The rest of the visit had proven uneventful; Edgeworth, in between fits of dozing, was uncomfortably reticent throughout the remainder of the day for a variety of reasons one or both of them hadn't really felt up towards discussing. 

Still, Phoenix hadn't felt inclined to leave until the sun had dipped beneath the horizon and the announcement came over the speakers that visiting hours were coming to a close; he'd stood, diverting his eyes from the television hanging from the corner of the room, and left with a promise to return the next day. Edgeworth had mumbled something about how just because he was confined to bed rest it didn't mean Phoenix had to join him in doing nothing for a week.

When he walked back through the halls to the entrance of the hospital, he was mostly isolated—no detectives, photographers, or other law officials in sight. It was oddly comforting, after biting back the unsettling feeling of intrusion that had permeated the entire day, where it was almost like he'd spent more time staying out of Edgeworth's way than actually keeping him company.

It wasn't just the nurses, subordinates, and other irritants in the ointment; he hadn't heard from Franziska in years, Gumshoe in months. He'd forgotten about the former entirely, even though it was her brother who had been hospitalized, until reminded.

In a way it was as though the world constructed around just the two of them—consisting of the things they saw together, looks from people they didn't even know and would never see again, and the counting game of how long Phoenix could silently goad Edgeworth into grasping his hand—had been punctured and all the things he hadn't bothered or wanted to think about came seeping in. Because Edgeworth had fallen sick—and the backlash the world offered in response turned out to be even more jarring than being forced to act as a serving boy to his assistant in his own office.

_What would Maya even say, seeing things like this..._

At that, Phoenix frowned.

_I have no idea what she'd say._

He couldn't immediately remember the last time he had spoken to Maya, off the top of his head either, if he was being honest with himself. With a start it hit him, after thinking about it, that it was almost two weeks ago, and even then, he couldn't bring to mind a single thing they'd talked about.

He'd been too busy thinking of what _not_ to talk about.

For a second he felt annoyed, not with himself, but with her—she had access to a phone just as much as he did. In the second after that, he had a hard time feeling much of anything except a rather bitter flood of self-disgust at even reflexively trying to pin it on Maya.

If she hadn't been calling, it probably meant that she was busy—whether with the gardens she had mentioned a while back, or any other number of tasks he only had the vaguest of ideas about--while he had spent the past two months not worrying about much of anything beyond counting the minutes to and since the next dinner or walk or impromptu library visit.

_Keep me updated, okay? _she had asked.

And he suddenly remembered that Edgeworth had looked at him oddly, slight frown touching his lips, and asked him if he had made any other calls.

After all, it wasn't just Phoenix—there were other people who would want to know something had happened to him.

Phoenix pulled his phone out of his pocket once again to dial.


	8. Chapter 8

Struggling Against Gravity

Chapter Eight

Over the years of grueling office hours and forsaken vacations, Miles Edgeworth had become keenly aware that serving as High Prosecutor meant, along with standard paperwork and courtroom duties, tending to certain responsibilities unlisted in the job description. For instance, it was necessary that the High Prosecutor learn to sleep lightly during sporadic opportunity. After all, the High Prosecutor must be used to being woken and alert at any sign of possible crisis—from the ringing to a phone to a rush of footsteps that could mean anything from a scandal broken over the media to a serial killer broken free.

Even outside the office, ingrained habits were difficult to break. Registering noise, he stirred against uncomfortable, bleached sheets—and then listened to soft footsteps approaching his bedside. Feeling his senses becoming more alert, he recognized the demeanor they carried, having heard it countless times before from secretaries, detectives, and fellow prosecutors alike: uncertain, cringing, and apologetic.

"Um, Mr. Miles Edgeworth?"

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a hospital ceiling.

A rush of bile rose in his throat at the sight of it. It inspired the memory of the _other_ time he had woken up with eyes fixed to a white ceiling, identical to this one—now nearly twenty years ago, but still held in his mind's eye with perfect, unfaded clarity. But the brief flicker of twisting panic was quickly overshadowed by a lash of pain throbbing in his side—a sharp reminder of his Gumshoe-assisted retreat from the office to here, dragging him back into the present and away from the threshold of old nightmares long past.

He unclenched his hands from the sheets. His gaze fell from the ceiling and onto the source of the voice that had woken him.

"I'm sorry to disturb your rest, sir," whispered the nurse. She was visible only as a faint silhouette hovering over him—_we're the only ones here and I'm already awake, so why are you bothering to whisper? _Miles sighed, pressing his head back against the pillow. There was no point in allowing himself to become irritated so easily. _This isn't the office._

"Nevermind. What is it?"

"There's an... an urgent call waiting for you." She bit her nails, sounding pained. "I'm terribly sorry. I know you've just been through surgery a few hours ago, but it's from, um... your elder sister, and she was quite insistent that I let her..."

That got his attention. _Franziska?_

He shifted upwards, fumbling in the darkness for the receiver on the bedstand. The nurse wound up retrieving it for him when he hissed in pain at having to twist in an uncomfortable way to reach for it. As she backed away, he propped it with both hands against his ear, though he could still hear the retreating shuffling of the nurse's feet—interspersed with loud sniffling—in the background. He supposed she hadn't been prepared for typical von Karma intolerance for technicalities that got in the way of what they wanted.

"Franziska? Is that you?"

Flat and unamused, but unmistakably her voice: "Miles Edgeworth."

He squinted through the darkness towards the wall clock across the room. "You are aware that it's nearly... five in the morning."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"I'm in the _hospital_."

"Yes, I'm _aware_."

He let his eyes fall shut, leaning back against the pillows. "...Franziska."

"Yes?"

"...was there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

"That's quite a presumption for you to make," she said, disdain dripping from her voice. "Since you're so capable of asking such inane questions, I can only assume your recovery is progressing stably."

He took the effort of moving an arm to pinch the bridge of his nose. He could still remember first hearing the exact same intonation for the first time when he was ten and she was three.

Still, a faint smile played on his lips. _A wild mare will never change course, I suppose. _"You heard about it."

"Of course," she scoffed. "You would do well not to underestimate me, Miles Edgeworth."

"I wouldn't dream of it." _I'm surprised Detective Gumshoe managed to work up the courage to make the call, frankly. _

"More specifically, I received word at _my_ five o' clock in the morning, so you have no room to complain about the hour." There was a sharp rapping on the other end, daring him to question her impeccable logic.

Miles frowned, adjusted the phone against his ear. In spite of the ridiculous words—typical Franziska—something strange and uneasy was laced within her tone as she spoke them. He had a growing suspicion that her reluctance to speak to the point was more than an attempt to be belligerent.

"I'm not sure how much you know," he said. "To be frank, I don't know everything myself, yet, either. I haven't had a chance to speak with anyone."

She responded with a grunt.

"Phoenix Wright," she said abruptly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Phoenix Wright," she repeated, a hint of irritation coloring her voice, "contacted me in order to explain your condition."

"...Wright did?"

"Yes."

Suddenly, Miles found that he was the one at a loss to respond.

"He was barely coherent," Franziska continued, "trying to reassure himself of your safety more than anything. It was a rather pathetic display."

His grip tightened on the phone.

"In fact," she went on, "I would go as far as to say that it was enough to remind me of _you._"

"Franziska, that's..."

Her voice instantly sharpened; his paltry response had apparently transformed suspicion into confirmation. "Do you know what you're doing, Miles Edgeworth?"

His lips parted to answer automatically, before he stopped.

"No. I probably don't."

"I thought not." A heavy pause hung between them. "You fool."

He couldn't deny it.

"I believe this is," she said, and her forcefully stony tone fractured, revealing something resembling melancholy beneath, "the most foolish thing you've ever done."

"I know."

"But nothing I can say would dissuade you."

"I don't think it's likely."

There was a long stretch of silence.

"I'll contact you again tomorrow," she said abruptly. "Make sure the staff is providing you with proper treatment. I never trusted the backwards medical systems of your country."

"I will."

"And you can inform Mr. Phoenix Wright..." she began, then stopped, a palpable mixture of frustration and several other shades of resentment tightening in a knot about the offending name.

_It's not his fault, Franziska._

"I'll be waiting for your call," he said, as gently as he could.

She snorted. "It's not as though you'll be doing anything else worthwhile with your time for the remainder of the week, is it? Go back to sleep, Miles Edgeworth."

She hung up.

* * *

He had always disliked hospitals. He disliked the notion of being doted on by strangers, he disliked the vulnerability of being a restricted to bed surrounded by white walls and the eerie sounds of clicking machinery, he disliked the memories associated with them, and he disliked the time lost that could have been spent doing something worthwhile.

By this time—a full day after his terse conversation with Franziska, and in spite of dealing with over a dozen visitors in between—he felt as though he'd been sleeping more in the past two days than he did over the span of an average two weeks. His body felt somehow uncomfortable with it, as though his joints were so used to the weight of constant stress that they protested now at them being lifted. It was a remarkably depressing notion.

Especially when one figured in the constant interruptions by visitors. He dared to hope that perhaps, after dismissing the final awkward detective last evening, today he would only have to worry about, inevitably, Detective Gumshoe. And Wright.

"Hello? Mr. Edgeworth...?"

Apparently not.

He cracked open one eye. It was still mostly dark outside, though he could see the pale whispers of morning sunlight at the horizon, made even fainter through the gauzy hospital curtains. _Roughly seven in the morning, I would presume..._

"Are you here...?"

He cracked the other eye towards the voice coming from the doorway. It sounded too young to be a nurse. The speaker's face was obscured by an armful of—Miles sighed inwardly—yet more flowers, but the white lab coat hanging around the young woman's ankles and the knot of brown hair at the top of her head was sufficient enough to give away her identity.

She tiptoed in almost conspiratorially, casting him a furtive, spylike glance before treading over to the table, only to find that it was already full to capacity. Ema seemed thrown by this, visibly puzzling over the conundrum with a crease of her brow—and then, as she scanned the other offerings more closely, her lips suddenly pursed in stark irritation. She shifted both of her gifts into the same elbow and set the one wrapped in purple ribbon to the floor in a rather ungentle manner. Slowly, carefully, she then slid the larger of her two burdens onto the corner of the newly cleared space.

Blinking away the last of the fog from his vision, Miles straightened to look at her more closely as she continued to go about her task, straining for balance.

"Good morning, Ms. Skye," he greeted.

"Ah!" Ema yelped, jumping. The remaining vase of flowers fell from her arms and shattered against the floor, spilling water, porcelain fragments, and bright orange petals around her feet.

A moment of silence ticked by. Ema seemed afraid to move, or breathe. Slowly, she turned on her heels towards him, though her face was tilted downwards in an unmistakable desire to fold in on herself and disappear through the ground.

"_Ah_," she repeated, but the sound now emerged in the shape of a despairing moan.

"Er," Miles began, but Ema quickly shook her head to cut him off and stooped down onto her hands and knees, already apologizing, words practically tripping over each other as they rushed from her mouth.

"I'm really sorry!" she said, scrambling to gather up the broken pieces. Too quickly—several of them spilled from her hands. "I thought you'd already be up... you're in so early at the office every day and all, so I just assumed you were sort of a morning person by nature, and... I didn't mean to wake you!" she concluded miserably.

_To begin with, I get up early because I have to, not because I want to..._ Though considering the level of her distress, it was probably best not to say that aloud.

"It's all right," he said instead. "Though, shouldn't you be at the office...?"

"Er, y-yes," Ema said, flustered. She stood and crossed the room to retrieve some of paper towels from the dispenser above the sink, using them to wipe up the water. "I'm sorry, I just thought I could spare a few minutes to drop these off... I know, it's unprofessional of me, but..."

"Never mind," Miles sighed. "Just don't stay too long. I appreciate your consideration."

Ema seemed to brighten a little at that. With renewed energy, she dumped the wad of used towels and remains of the vase into the nearby garbage can. The flowers still appeared mostly intact, so she swept them up in one hand, adjusted a few bent petals with the other, and began placing them delicately in the thin spaces between the rows of vases on the table. The effect produced wasn't terrible.

"Well, now that that's over with..." she said, putting her hands on her hips. She turned partway back towards him, considerably more collected now that the mess was gone and now that it was obvious he wasn't infuriated with her show of clumsiness.

"Those are from me," she said, nodding towards the corner of the table, where the larger set still sat benignly. "And the, um, other ones are from Sis. She said to tell you she's sorry she couldn't come in personally, but she's working on a pretty intense case now, so she couldn't really take the time off."

"No, I understand. We've all been in that position before."

It seemed remarkable to Miles that Lana's career had taken to that level so quickly. Not for any lack of Lana's own capabilities, but given her circumstances, he had to admit that he'd had his doubts.

Ema nodded, lingering near the table. Her fingers knitting nervously in front of her chest, eyes skittered in jagged lines across the hospital floor. "So, um... are you feeling all right, Mr. Edgeworth?"

"If I was," he said, "I wouldn't be in here."

She gave a sort of half-squeak that transformed into a pained, nervous laugh. "Yes, you're right, of course. That was a silly question for me to ask..."

"But I suppose," he allowed, "if we trust what the doctors here say, I will be soon enough."

"Right! That's Mr. Edgeworth for you!" Ema exclaimed, with a sudden enthusiasm that was startlingly reminiscent of Detective Gumshoe. _That would be a road best avoided._ "The office definitely isn't the same without you. It was total panic yesterday after you disappeared..."

That hardly came as a surprise. Though in spite of himself, he did feel some measure of relief at, for once, not being the one expected to handle the fallout of an unexpected complication.

_And as long as she's here, I may as well ask. _"Do you know if they've managed to reassign my cases?"

The immediate change in mood was nearly enough to make Miles startle. Ema's smile suddenly collapsed into a darkened scowl, like an incoming rush of storm clouds over a grassy knoll. When she spoke next, her voice had a flat edge that was nearly unrecognizable from the mannerism of the excitable, self-conscious intern speaking mere seconds ago.

"Yeah, they have. I just got the notice this morning, actually. Prosecutor Embery's picked up one or two—no one could miss it, either, from all the complaining she's doing about it—but the rest have been relegated to..." She sucked in a hiss of breath through her teeth, "Mr. _New Hope of the Precinct._"

Miles frowned._ There's only one person she could be talking about._

"Is he..." he began, but trailed off. Ema was apparently intent on continuing her tirade.

"It's just not fair!" she said. "It's like he thinks he can just walk out and walk back in whenever he wants. None of the _rest_ of us get that luxury! I mean, do you think they'd let me say 'oh, I'm going to take a break for... for... for some kind of painting expedition, hold my seat while I'm gone' just like that? It's completely ridiculous! And then he thinks he can yell at the _rest_ of us for being unprofessional? The worst thing is, the office lets him get away with it, just because he's _famous_ and _good looking_..."

_I can't say I disagree with that assessment,_ Miles thought, wryly,_ but nonetheless..._

"You have worked with him before, haven't you?" he asked.

"Just the once," she said, running a hand through her hair—or attempting to, as her fingers collided awkwardly with the goggles resting atop her head. "It's not an experience I want to repeat." She sighed mournfully and shook her head; when she spoke next, her intonation was that of a plea. "I was really looking forward to working with you again, too..."

"The cases have to be dealt with, no matter who's prosecuting," he murmured. "I'm sure that you understand that."

Her head jerked up briefly at the implied admonishment, before her shoulders sagged, righteous indignation drained away.

"I know. I do..." she said, voice tight with frustration. "It's just... I keep thinking that in a lot of ways actually working on the field isn't what I imagined it would be like. I wish we could get rid of all of these stupid politics and focus on what _matters_."

_You're hardly the only one._

"Unfortunately, politics are a significant part of public service," he said, unable to keep the weariness from seeping into his voice. "The higher position one holds, I'm afraid the more one has to be conscious of appearances."

"I know, I know, it's just..." She deflated again. "I really am sorry, I meant to come in here to try to cheer you up, not go off like that... but, it's not just me, you know? They've put you through so much, too, and Lana..."

Almost involuntarily, Miles felt his line of vision break from her and towards the window. _It wasn't unearned._ A familiar stab of guilt ghosted through his chest.

He offered: "I can understand your frustrations. I am glad that... Lana seems to be doing fairly well for herself now that she's parted ways from there." _Better, at the very least._

Ema's lips twitched downward briefly. He glanced back towards her.

_Perhaps not...?_

"She doesn't tell me much," Ema said. "But I have a feeling sometimes it's harder for her than she lets on. _I've_ already put everything that's happened back then behind us, but I don't... I don't think everyone else is willing to let her forget about it, even knowing her reasons..."

_No, I expect not._

"I stopped by her office a couple of weeks ago so we could have lunch together, you know," Ema continued, "And there was someone there who actually had the nerve to keep calling her _Chief Prosecutor Skye—_like _that,_ not as an honest mistake or anything, but almost... to keep drilling it into her that that's all they'll ever see her as. Lana kept smiling, but she had that certain look about her... when I can tell she's really hurting, deep inside."

"If that's true," he said. "she must be grateful to have you here with her."

"I don't know about that, really," Ema said, though she managed a weak smile. "I mean... she owes you an awful lot, Mr. Edgeworth, for what you did for her—and I do, too, of course," she added hastily, a light flush overtaking her cheeks.

"I could easily say the same for her," Miles murmured.

Ema blinked. "Hm?"

"No," he said, "never mind." When she still looked puzzled, he added, "You should return to the office. Regardless of whether or not you're personally fond the prosecutor in charge, if I'm remembering that particular case correctly, there's great deal of field work still to be done. If you wish to be treated like a professional, then it's necessary that you to act like one, no matter what your relationship to your coworkers."

"Y... yes, sir. You're right, of course." Ema heaved another sigh, biting her lip. "I'm sorry for my attitude. I'll do my best..."

He folded his hands in his lap and met her gaze directly. "I expect nothing less of you. If you honestly believe the prosecutor is less than capable, I trust you will take responsibility of seeing that the investigation remains up to standard."

Ema's eyes widened slightly. Then she nodded, steely resolution relit in her gaze. "Right! I will. I won't disappoint you, Mr. Edgeworth. And..." Her face softened. "...please get well soon."

Once she had stepped out, and the door had shut securely behind her, he felt himself relax again. He had thought, after the previous evening, that he was done playing the part of the High Prosecutor for the duration of his hospital stay—but he supposed that had been a rather naïve presumption.

_Chief Prosecutor..._

He hadn't seen Lana since she had defeated him in court, back in August. Reading the newspapers, he had the distinct impression that she was determined to keep her newfound career as low key as possible. There had been an initial media blitz when her law firm had made the decision to give her a chance, and another small rush when they had faced each other—but although she seemed to be doing fairly well, he never saw her name anywhere near most notable cases.

It was understandable. When she did make it into the news, no matter what the context, it inevitably included a tangent about the corrupt history involving her prior connections with Damon Gant—and with himself.

It was unrealistic to hope for anything resembling a genuine fresh start. He knew that Lana understood that, too, since her release. There would be whispers following both of them for the rest of their lives.

_Still._

His attention drifted back on the table across from his bed, where the heads of Ema's delivery of orange flowers poked casually from between the vases.

_She's very fortunate._

Miles's eyes trailed to the wall where the clock was situated. It was nearly eight thirty by now—Wright would probably be arriving soon.

_...as am I._

He eased back against the pillows, stiff and uncomfortable though they were, and let his tired eyes drift shut. If he had been asked four years ago—_no, five months ago—_if he could have imagined any of them ending up where they were now...

_It's strange, isn't it, how things turn out..._

* * *

The verdict had been three months in the making.

The trial had begun prior to his arrival. He had heard, even overseen, stories of its ilk dozens of times before—an argument between a young couple, over the pettiest of mishaps, that ended with one strangled to death and the other arrested for having done the strangling.

It wasn't the suspect or the circumstances of the crime that pertained to Miles's interest, but rather, the sheer length of the proceedings surrounding it—this country lacked the initial trial system. From Miles's perspective, that made for a bloated process where the same pieces of evidence and the same pool of witnesses were expounded upon again and again in a tug-of-war that struck him as almost shameless on the parts of both attorneys. All the same, the lack of time restriction to exhaust each component, however small, resulted in little doubt remaining when a conclusion was finally reached.

But another, subtler effect of this was that the trial itself seemed less of a public show than what Miles was accustomed to. The increased tedium involved with higher emphasis on sifting through unexciting technical details meant far less jeering from the part of the spectators, whose age range skewed much older and more solemn than he typically saw in courtroom sessions throughout his own career.

He had to admit that this, if nothing else, was a definite improvement.

All of these observations were recorded in his notes, laid out before him in the gallery, where he was positioned as an outside spectator over the trial. As the other men and women who had attended began to file out, he organized his material while keeping an eye on the demeanor of prosecutor, defense attorney, and condemned suspect alike.

When Miles had first arrived to set foot in foreign soil, separated from the city he called his home by an ocean and then some, he was only known as a prominent lawyer from America. Even with the complication of wielding a somewhat faulty command of the accompanying language, it was refreshing and almost unnerving to shake a coworker's hand and be able to meet them in the eye without a tired, cynical distrust underscoring the entire meeting.

He hadn't quite realized how resigned he had become to waking up in the morning and finding a fresh, less than glowing citation of his work or history in the papers—day after day, week after week, year after year—until he'd arrived in a backwards world where, inexplicably, it didn't happen anymore.

It was always temporary, of course. No matter where he went, it was only a matter of time until the unsavory details of his past began to bleed into the present, and officials who had been amicable at the prospect of welcoming a foreign prodigy became somewhat less accommodating when aware of the whispers of _demon prosecutor_ in that same man's shadow.

He'd seen many different places over the past three years, but the cycle was generally the same wherever he went.

Nearly always, once introductions had passed between he and the officials of the area in question, he would begin by chiefly observing the local proceedings, taking notes for both the public records of the precinct and for his own purposes. Within five to six months on average, he usually found himself familiar enough with the country's methods of due process to stand at the bench himself to oversee a trial as prosecutor.

This meant that he had learned about all he was going to within a reasonable amount of time, and that it was time to hand in his resignation notice, go through the rounds of shaking hands again, and leave for the next country and begin the cycle anew—functioning as an observer of a legal system that maybe, in a few ways, might be a little less broken than the one he called his own.

He told himself that this was the least that he could do, after doing so much to embroil his own precinct in scandals, tarnishing its reputation.

* * *

Contact from home began sporadic, but since the incident with Matt Engarde a few years back—when he had first returned—had also settled down into a fairly regular routine. Detective Gumshoe was his primary source of information for developments at the Prosecutor's Office.

"It's a pretty bad mess, honestly," he relayed. "Half the time it's like no one's really sure who's actually in charge. I don't even know how much longer I can expect to keep working here, if I'm being totally honest with you, sir. There's a lot of reshuffling going on."

"Reshuffling?"

"Yeah. It's like they want to filter out a lot of the old guard who had ties to Prosecutor von Karma and Chief Gant, but this mess, lots of people are saying, is what led to that stunt with Diego Armando. You've got tons of people asking, 'how the heck did that guy slip in without a background check or even a legally registered name?' So it's slow going, trying to refill the ranks while keeping things in order. They want to make sure they don't hire someone they can't be sure isn't, you know, another killer."

Usually this was followed by a pregnant pause, and then a tentative, "So are you, uh, planning on coming back anytime soon, sir?"

"If they're looking to cover up the traces of Manfred von Karma," Miles said, "I doubt they'd be looking to welcome me back in open arms."

"Well, yeah, maybe," Gumshoe said, baffled by this unexpected turn of logic, "But still... no one can deny you were one of our top prosecutors, sir! Place just hasn't been the same ever since you took off. And it's not like all that stuff was your fault to begin with anyway..."

_I'm afraid there are a lot of people who would vehemently disagree with you. _"I think, for the time being, my time is better spent doing what I am now."

But work aside, even without prompting from Miles, Gumshoe also felt the need to keep him up to date with the more personal side of the local happenings. Mostly this pertained to things relating to Maggey Byrde. On those threads of conversation, the prosecutor found himself diverting his attention back to his work and interjecting a well-timed "yes" or "I see" when there was a break between flustered, lovestruck rambling.

But once in a while—sometimes even catching himself off guard—he would break in and ask:

"How is Wright doing?"

"Wright?" Gumshoe echoed, thrown by the sudden shift in subject from Maggey's work at the animal shelter. "Oh, you mean... uh, far as I know, he's doing okay. I don't actually see him around that much, just those times when someone drops dead, so... but," he added hastily, "he seems same as always as far as I can tell, with those weird girls pushing him around and all."

"He's made a few headlines recently, I've noticed."

"Oh, you saw those, huh?"

"Of course I did. They dohave newspapers and television in Europe..."

"Yeah, that was really something, wasn't it? I thought he really might not make it that time, but y'know, if you can rely on anyone to pull a turnabout out of nowhere, it's that guy." Gumshoe's voice reflected a mixture of exasperation and reluctant respect that had been built over the course of years. "But hey, you already knew that, didn't you, sir?"

"Yes," Miles said. "Of course I do."

He didn't realize he was smiling until after he had hung up the phone.

_So he's doing all right. Of course he is. Of course..._

The other person he spoke with semi-regularity—asides, of course, from Franziska, still operating in Germany—was the former chief prosecutor, Lana Skye. She had initiated the contact, after he had made it a point to vanish from the local scene a second time, not willing to let the media bog him down and make a spectacle of his departure. He'd asked, not with a small amount of incredulity, how she had managed to get a hold of his number—to which she answered that extracting the information from Detective Gumshoe hadn't exactly been difficult.

There was little he was able to offer in response to that other than a long, weary sigh.

The following conversation had been fairly cordial; she made it a deliberate, prolonged point to inform him of how distressed Ema had been upon receiving word about his 'suicide note'. He had apologized duly. Lana promised to pass on the message, and wasted no time asking if he had offered the same olive branch towards Phoenix Wright.

"We spoke."

"And?"

"I think..." he had said, then sighed again. This wasn't exactly a subject he had been eager to broach, especially with Lana. "I think we came to an understanding."

"You think?" Lana echoed, and there was something uncomfortably close to sympathy pressed in the undercurrent of her voice.

"Obviously, I can't actually speak for Wright."

The continued exchanges afterwards had been somewhat less strained. She didn't call often; generally only when she had seen him in the news or to discuss recent developments at the precinct.

As the time passed a quiet sense of urgency had begin to underscore her words. The more they spoke, the more he was left—especially in the past year or so, when she had finally been released from prison—with the increased suspicion that she was _expecting_ something of him. He had no solid evidence to support the notion, but her sentences began to carry a clipped quality to them, the impression of waiting for a response when he had none to offer.

* * *

His thoughts jarred back into the present as he realized the majority of the crowd had filtered out of the courtroom, finally leaving it mostly empty. Enclosing the day's notes into his briefcase and snapping it shut, he stood and followed suit, nodding in passing to the prosecutor of the house, who still organizing his things, a weary but satisfied expression on his face.

His phone went off when he was about halfway to the parking lot. A glance down told him that it was Lana.

As he answered it, continuing to make his way towards his car, he found himself hoping anew, vaguely, that his earlier suspicions were nothing more than baseless paranoia.

"Miles Edgeworth speaking."

"Hello, Miles," she greeted. "How have you been?"

"All right," he said, "more or less. And yourself?"

"Better," she answered.

As he pressed the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, shifting the grip of his briefcase from one hand to the other, he thought he had a fairly good idea of what she probably called to talk about. "I heard the news about your recent employment. Congratulations."

"Yes," she said. "The offer surprised me as well."

Miles was certain he hadn't actually said anything about being surprised, but perhaps he hadn't needed to. Lana continued speaking.

"Obviously, I wasn't expecting anything like this to happen, but the head of the firm seemed sympathetic to my story. It's probably the best arrangement I can hope to have—certainly more than I deserve..."

"Still, I imagine you haven't had an easy time of it."

She paused. "To be honest, it's been a surprisingly smooth transition. And, really, worrying about the minor complications is the least of my concerns right now—now that Ema's coming back."

That was unexpected. He hadn't thought that Lana's younger sister would complete her overseas education so quickly—based on what he could recall of her, though she was enthusiastic, she hadn't struck him as especially brilliant. At least, not brilliant enough to justify cutting the duration of her schooling by half.

"She is? That seems rather..."

"Hasty, I know. But she's managed to gain an internship at the police department in forensic investigation. It's a relief—she was worried that she would fail the test, and still won't tell me the margin she _did _pass it by, but..."

_Yes, that would explain it, I suppose. _"Hmm."

"It'll be wonderful to see her again."

"I'm sure it will be. You can offer her my congratulations as well."

"I will."

He had finally reached the car. Still holding the phone in precarious balance against his shoulder, he began to dig for his keys, vaguely trying to think of a way to politely dismiss himself from the conversation.

"What about you?"

The question made him stop just as his fingers closed around metal. "What?"

"Are you planning on returning any time soon?" Lana asked. "It's been nearly three years now."

Miles frowned. Some instinct, speaking from a sense of growing wariness at the way she framed the inquiry, made him withdraw his hand and leave the keys lying in his pocket. He grasped the phone again with his freed hand, straightening. "No, I still have work to do," he said. "Here."

"Your research, you mean...?"

"Yes."

"If you don't mind my asking," she said, pointed but not ungentle, "what is it that you're hoping to accomplish with all of that?"

_I would think that would be obvious. _"I'm hoping to find a way to mend the wreckage that's been consuming the Prosecutor's Office." _The wreckage that _we_ left behind._

She said nothing at first, but Miles was certain that she heard the unspoken words. Finally, she said, quietly, "I'm not sure if the office will last that long."

His frown deepened. "I don't follow your meaning."

"What I mean is that I don't know that the office can afford to not to have you there—now more than ever."

His grip around the handle of briefcase tightened as his jaw set. _I'm used to hearing such ludicrous, alarmist claims from Detective Gumshoe, but from the likes of Lana Skye..._

"Miles, I know you're aware of the state of things there. I can't offer much of a firsthand account anymore, but I still have contacts and the things I'm hearing..."

"Of course I'm aware," he said, shortly. "That's precisely why I'm doing what I am now."

"You've been out there for three years, Miles. There are people being hurt by the self-destruction of the office right now that can't wait for you."

"It's not that simple."

"That's an easy thing to say," she said, and her tone remained coolly level in a clear echo of her old authority as Chief Prosecutor, "when looking at the situation from such distance."

_Where did this come from? _he thought, feeling a pounding building within his skull at the unwelcome turn of conversation. He hadn't expected to wind up on the receiving end of a lecture. _Why now?_

But this was obviously something she had been waiting to tell him for some time.

"I know that it's been difficult," he said, trying to keep his voice level, to match professionalism with professionalism. "But as I've also explained to Detective Gumshoe, _multiple_ times, I doubt that my returning would help improve the situation. There are still a lot of lingering grudges associated with my name and my actions, as well you should know..."

"I don't believe that the office can afford to be that selective," Lana said. "Grudges are one thing, but the reality of it is that they need all the help that they can get—help that you can offer."

_The sole person capable of offering assistance is a disgraced prosecutor thousands of miles away? _he thought, incredulous.

"I'm hardly the only one who can intervene," he pointed out. "And it's ridiculous to pretend that I am. Besides, from what I'm hearing, they've been doing fairly well recently, banding around that newcomer—in fact, the news can't seem to stop talking about 'promising new blood' on the scene..."

"Miles, you should know better than anyone else not to implicitly trust what any news headline or reporter has to say."

"Nonetheless..."

Lana cut him off. "Listen to me. I've already seen Prosecutor Gavin at work firsthand. He's certainly talented—based on my observations, yes, I would venture to say he has a long and promising career ahead of him. But he's also very young. He's younger than you and I when we started, and he can't uphold the entire weight of the office by himself. No one person can, let alone someone fresh off the bar."

"I'm aware of that," Miles said, "but..."

"Besides," she murmured. "Is that really what this is about?"

His grip on the phone tightened. It was clear that she was not about to let him wrest control of the conversation any time soon. "What do you mean?"

"What you keep saying, essentially, is that you're not needed," she pressed on. "When, exactly, do you think you will be, if not now?"

"I can't say--"

"But that's exactly the problem. It's not about who's best equipped to offer help. Someone has to—and frankly, I doubt that Prosecutor Gavin or anyone else struggling right now genuinely cares about your history as long as the job is done—and if you keep trying making the same justification to keep away... if you're being honest with yourself, aren't you still running?"

The briefcase slipped from his hands onto the asphalt with a disorienting clunk. Whatever response he had been preparing to answer with died on his lips.

"I'm sorry," Lana said quietly. "That was presumptuous of me. But I don't want you to repeat my mistake—to keep making excuses, refusing to face the people surrounding you, and staying silent while watching things fall apart before your eyes. You can't take back lost time, Miles."

"I know that." Privately, somewhat bitterly, he thought that he probably knew it better than she did. "The _reason_ I'm out here is _because_ I know things are falling apart. If you're suggesting I'm wasting my time by committing myself to this line of work——I'm afraid I'd have to offer strong disagreement." The title of _Chief Prosecutor_ nearly escaped from his mouth, half habit, half harsh endnote.

"No, that's not exactly what I meant," Lana said, unfazed by the rising hostility in his voice. "Listen. When I took my first case, I had to confront a good deal of the same people from the office whose name I had dirtied in the past out of my own selfishness. No matter what I do from this point, I can't..."

She hesitated briefly before plunging on.

"I can't give Jake back his brother," she said. "And I can't give Angel back her position. I can't help the people whose trials I interfered with who are already gone. No matter what I do, no matter how much I apologize, those things won't change. I can't change them."

He exhaled sharply.

"And that's exactly why I can't turn away from them."

He opened his mouth to speak, but there was nothing he could think to say.

"How long are you planning to keep hiding? Is the 'answer' you found so weak that you're not even willing to test it, Miles?"

"It's not that simple," he finally managed to repeat, but even he heard the loss of conviction behind the words.

When Lana spoke again—she let the words hang between them long enough for the weakness of the denial to sink in for them both—she sounded weary, but not quite apologetic. "And also, Miles... it's not just Ema and I. There are many others, I'm sure, who are waiting for you to come back."

"I don't know what you mean."

Her long silence was more telling than any reply would have been. The wariness began to pool in his stomach as outright dread.

"I suppose I need to get back to this paperwork," she said, finally. "I'm sure you have your own matters to attend to as well. I apologize for taking up so much of your time—I didn't expect to end up discussing all of this with you, either. But... please think about what I said."

He lowered his phone after they had exchanged goodbyes, staring down into the blank screen.

Even after sliding soundlessly into the car—the weight of the briefcase hefted next to him rendered hollow and the rattle of papers inside oddly meaningless—he was unable to shake the feeling of being left in the aftermath of a summer storm, damp and miserable despite being surrounded by clear sky.

* * *

He handed in the resignation notice early, cutting the last cycle short—some three weeks after he had said goodbye to Lana over the phone. It was enough time to complete observation of another trial, and enough time to watch the news report yet another prosecutor back home being placed under inquiry for suspicion of evidence fraud. Alongside the scandal rolled endless interviews of an eighteen-year-old with barely a year of experience who, nonetheless, had somehow managed to become primary spokesperson for the entire office simply by virtue of the sheer incompetence surrounding him.

It was hard, watching it unfold, not to think back to the start of his own career—strained and sleep-deprived enough when he had been designated with the title of _genius_ in what was still a reputable office. The young prosecutor speaking on the screen now didn't show any visible signs of strain, but, Miles thought grimly, it was only a matter of time.

He'd made arrangements to return after switching the television off that night, even still telling himself that it was a mistake. A cowardly mistake to be diverted from his plans because of one disapproving phone call. An arrogant mistake to think he could simply walk back in and begin the process of reform. A naïve mistake to even dare think that anyone there might ever be willing to trust him again.

And a quiet, lonely mistake, to think that he could still trust himself—not just in matters that pertained to law—other matters that he refused to let himself think about, that distracted him from work, that he already understood would never amount to anything.

The sentiment continued to twist within him the entire journey back, hours of travel and thousands of miles consumed and rendered into a blur by lingering, wrenching self-doubt.

It was still looping in his mind as he stepped off of the plane and made his way across the airport towards baggage claim. Logically, he reasoned, there was nothing stopping him from turning around, purchasing a new ticket, and going straight back the way he had came. There were a dozen reasons why he shouldn't be here and no good ones as to why he should have ever felt compelled to return.

Perhaps it would have meant that he was a hypocrite and a coward after all, but he had never tried to fool himself into thinking he was anything else.

Stepping on board an escalator, he made up his mind to collect his things and make his way to the front desk to request an immediate return flight—when he stopped short, feeling his blood freeze momentarily in his veins and his breath catch in his throat.

At the bottom of the escalator was a small gaggle of people peering up towards him, eagerly—people whose faces he recognized.

_What are they... how ridiculous...!_

Detective Gumshoe—undoubtedly, he was the one responsible for this embarrassing display—raised both arms over his head to wave madly, as though he could miss the congregation that, by all appearances, had been lying in wait to ambush him as soon as he came within sight. It took a beat for Miles to recognize, with some exasperation, the lanky man in orange copying his gestures as Larry Butz—though his attention seemed less on Miles and more on the stewardess who was passing by.

_He'll never change. Neither of them will._

Maya Fey, still dressed in her absurd acolyte's robes, was laughing and hefting up a cardboard sign painted in bright colors in the shape of his name. It was garishly out of place in the otherwise dull grey surroundings of the airport, but if she noticed the discrepancy, as usual, she failed to show it. Her younger cousin—her name escaped him at the moment—flailed her arms as her height proved insufficient to match the upswing.

They had both grown since Miles had seen them last.

And then his gaze settled last upon the man standing just behind them, who was sporting a foolish, rather lopsided kind of grin—and a familiar rush of terrifying, electric warmth, one he hadn't experienced since he had last seen his face a year ago, the one he had tried to convince himself would pass with time, would pass with work, would pass with distance, would pass with the release of a shy nun from Hazakura—coursed its way through him.

Wright kept smiling.

The last, lingering doubt settled and faded in the back of his mind. He still wasn't sure if he was willing to say that coming back had been the right thing.

But he was certain now that it wasn't a mistake.

* * *

Red orbs bobbed back and forth in a blurry motion when Miles cracked his eyes, the sound of latex tapping lightly against the wall like faint raindrops across a windowpane. He squinted and a distorted Steel Samurai floated into view, with the words "GET WELL SOON" emblazoned underneath.

_Balloons…?_

Miles blinked rapidly when a half-gasp swung his attention to the foot of the bed. A little girl, hair in twin loops and wearing the customary purple, pink, and white acolyte spirit medium gear regarded him with wide grey eyes.

"He's awake, Mystic Maya!"

_Pearl Fey…?_

Before he could make his throat work and ask the obvious question, a much more familiar voice chuckled next to his head, "Well, darn! There goes the surprise!"

He looked upwards. The balloons—there had to be at least a dozen—were no longer obscuring Maya's face. She gave the knot she'd just finished tying to the railings a satisfied pat and stepped back, collapsing with a huff into the chair Wright had claimed for his own yesterday.

_Or was it the day before yesterday? _That was another unfortunate side effect of being hospitalized—losing track of the days. Time seemed to contort depending on his state of mind.

Pearl Fey hadn't moved from the foot of the bed, shifting slightly from side to side as though she wasn't quite sure of the proper protocol in this situation. Maya noticed and motioned towards the other side of the room where an unused chair sat next to an equally bereft bed.

"You don't need to be shy, it's just Mr. Edgeworth!"

"_Just"? _He smiled. Only Maya Fey could make something potentially insulting so charming.

Pearl flushed at Maya's words, but didn't speak as she bowed shortly before scurrying over to retrieve the chair. Though she was taller than the memory of their meeting in the airport allowed, it was still difficult to resist the urge to climb out of bed and offer assistance as she alternately grappled and dragged the reluctant piece of furniture to a position next to Maya's own.

"This is quite an unexpected treat," he said, once she sat down and caught her breath. _I was beginning to wonder if Wright would ever allow us in the same room again_.

Pearl kept darting glances towards where Miles's IV met his arm with equal parts trepidation, curiosity, and a faint tinge of pity. Miles wondered if this was her first time with an extended hospital visit. He couldn't remember one way or the other if she had been there when Wright visited Franziska in the aftermath of de Killer's shooting.

"I-I'm terribly sorry to hear about what happened, Mr. Edgeworth!" The words erupted from her mouth with surprising force. "It must have been a horrible experience."

"Yeah, I didn't even know appendixes could burst like that!" Maya added, before she cupped her chin in her hand and assumed a more thoughtful pose. "Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not even sure I know where an appendix _is_…"

"I hope we aren't disturbing your rest," Pearl said.

"Not at all," Miles said. _I've had enough sleep to last me a while._

Maya muttered something Miles couldn't catch, eyes distant as she counted off fingers to unspecified purpose. Pearl, seemingly having lost a large portion of her crippling shyness, fixed those slightly discomfiting eyes to his. He struggled to find something to say. The shadow of Maya's balloons passed briefly across his face like a small cloud. He glanced up instinctively. Maya, noticing, smiled.

"I thought they might brighten up the room a little more," she explained, pulling herself away from her musings. "Guess I got kind of carried away. I haven't had balloons since I was a kid…"

_Neither have I,_ he thought. _Isn't that usually the case?_ It was entirely possible he wasn't up to date on his balloon etiquette.

"I wouldn't say 'carried away'. It's…" Miles stopped, mentally rifling through his vocabulary for the proper words. Though he felt about twenty years too old to fully appreciate the gift, it wasn't entirely unwelcome to have a present that skewed young instead of professional for a change.

Maya smiled at his discomfiture. "Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth."

_But I didn't say anything…_

"I suppose we could always exchange them for some flowers if you really want," she teased, motioning towards his "garden" huddled against the far wall. The ensuing expression on his face prompted a peal of laughter. "Guess not, huh?"

"No, I am…grateful." _In a manner of speaking_.

It had almost surprised him when Detective Gumshoe had shown up early in the morning on the second day of his arrival—shortly after his discussion with Franziska, actually—with that ridiculous mug of pansies and dandelions. Miles would have been happier with the return of his cell phone.

Then the rest had started trickling in; some from coworkers he had little more than a speaking relationship with, others he'd assumed actively disliked him. Logic dictated that most of it was about appearances than genuine well wishes, but sometimes the splash of color caught the corner of his eye as he spoke to a nurse or focused on the television in the corner and he found himself stunned anew.

"People have been very kind," Miles said.

"You can say that again," Maya said. She spread her hand above her eyes as she mock-surveyed the table, pushing the sleeves of her robes out of the way when they hampered her line of sight. "It looks like you've got enough over there to start your own shop."

"Yes. They're very lovely…and there are so _many_ of them," Pearl said. It could have been Miles's imagination, but he thought her mouth twisted downwards in slight disapproval as she spoke.

"Most of them are from my coworkers," he said. Only after the words left his lips did he wonder why Pearl Fey's opinion of his public image was of any concern.

"Aww, and here I was telling Pearly all about your harem!"

A thousand different protests burst into his throat at once, knotting together as he coughed and hacked in an attempt to spit them out. "I…that's…" he wheezed.

"I understand, Mr. Edgeworth!" Pearl exclaimed while he was still struggling. He paused, objections sliding from his mouth to an uncomfortable knot of foreboding in his stomach. "I just knew there had to be some mistake! After all, you have Ms. Oldbag, right?"

Through the most profound exercise of will, Miles managed to keep from outright shuddering at the sound of _that_ name. Harder still to quash the irrational worry that speaking it out loud would be enough to summon the woman back to assault him with another verbal torrent of misguided affection.

"Ah…I'm afraid our relationship isn't of that nature," he said at last, attempting to maintain a sense of diplomacy.

He swallowed heavily when Pearl's shoulders sagged. Children were hard for him to deal with in general—though Pearl Fey was more polite than most—but that didn't mean he enjoyed feeling like the rain ruining a little girl's picnic.

"See?" Maya said, elbowing Pearl lightly. "I knew there was something going on with those orchids!"

Against better his better judgment: "Orchids?"

"Initials K.G.? Signed with a heart?" Maya prompted, once again hovering over the bed. Her purple sleeves were almost painfully bright against the sterile hospital bed sheets.

"Oh..." Miles grimaced. "No, it's not like that. He's just a coworker." _One of the most frivolous ones I've had the 'pleasure' of meeting, at that._

Pearl's head lifted. "D-does that mean there's still a possibility for Ms. Oldbag? She cares so much about you, Mr. Edgeworth!"

Miles wondered if feigning sudden death would be enough to stop this conversation before it descended to a hitherto unknown level of 'uncomfortable'. He squirmed, incision along his side protesting the sudden movement.

"I…"

_I'm not exactly in the position of saying 'never', all things considered, _he thought, _but…_

He shook his head slowly.

"Oh…" Pearl seemed to quietly fold in on herself, thumb raised to her lips as she lapsed into a contemplative silence. Perhaps there was something to this Fey 'magical powers' nonsense after all; Miles couldn't think of any other way to explain the sudden prickle of guilt he felt over not being in a romantic relationship with _Wendy Oldbag_, of all people.

For a long stretch, the only sound was the steady humming of the hospital machinery. Above him, one of the balloons caught the breeze from the air-conditioning vent, Steel Samurai waggling his spear in a seemingly mocking fashion.

"Did you two come by yourselves?" He'd meant the words to come out casual, but instead they felt painfully obvious. He might as well have asked 'where's Wright?' and allowed subtlety to fall to the wayside entirely.

"Oh, no! Nick's here too. He's still downstairs in the gift shop. He was taking for_ever­ _so we just came up on our own," Maya rolled her eyes and moved forward out of the chair to stage whisper in his ear. "Just so you're forewarned, you're probably getting tulips. I think that's the only flower he knows…"

_And sunflowers, if I recall those elementary school "art" classes correctly. _

"Mystic Maya!" Pearl exclaimed, staring at where Maya's other hand rested against Miles's shoulder. "Mr. Nick was just trying to be thoughtful! I-I'm sure if _you_ were in the hospital, he'd spend _hours_ trying to find the perfect bouquet of roses!"

"You mean tulips!" Maya giggled. Her laughter was infectious, bouncing off the walls. It brought forth an amusing picture of Wright muddling his way through rows of overpriced bouquets and stuffed animals, utterly lost, and Miles found his own low chuckles joining hers.

_Wright has no idea how lucky he is_, Miles thought when they both subsided. "It's the thought that counts, I suppose."

"Yeah, that's what they say," Maya said, beaming. Then her expression softened. "This is going to sound bad, but I guess, in a way, I'm kind of glad you ended up here."

"M-mystic Maya!" Pearl protested.

"No, I mean," Maya said. "I guess I can't judge, but you always seem to be working so hard. Maybe this is life's way of giving you a vacation. Plus, it gives us a chance to catch up."

"That's a rather sad state of affairs, if hospitalization is required," Miles said.

"Well, maybe that's something we can--"

Maya was interrupted by the sound of a chair screeching in protest as Pearl stood up. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two of them as though honed upon an incoming disaster.

"Pearly…?"

"I-I think I'm going to go see what's taking Mr. Nick so long!" she exclaimed, pausing only to make sure the door didn't slam on her way out.

Miles quirked an eyebrow. "Should I…?" He stopped, not knowing exactly what he was asking or how much he should say.

"Don't worry about it." The edges of Maya's smile seemed to waver, thinning in a way Miles had never seen before on her face—had never _wanted_ to see. It reminded him too much of his own. "She's going through one of those phases…you know?"

He nodded. Miles knew all about 'those phases'; living with through adolescence with Franziska von Karma had made sure of that. In some respects, it seemed his own sister would never leave her own tumultuous growing pains behind.

"So, um, how has Nick been?" The sound of Maya's voice jerked Miles back from his musings.

"In what sense?" Miles asked. It was a lawyer question, probing for more details—what Wright had said, or what he hadn't.

"Well, I've been so busy lately that we haven't had a chance to talk that much," she said, staring down at knotted fingers against the heavy sleeves of her robes. "It was almost a surprise to his voice on the other line, explaining what had happened to you…"

He'd had his suspicions. These past few months, queries concerning how Maya was doing were always met with an uneasy squirm and a quick change of subject.

"So, I guess…you'd kind of know what was going on with him better than me right now…"

Knowing that he, no matter how he tried to rationalize it, was the one responsible for that tentative edge to her voice was almost unbearable.

"As far as I know," Miles began, pushing down his own guilt and a spike of anger at Wright that momentarily dwarfed the blunt pain in his side, "his office is running about the same as it always does without you there to push things along: slowly."

That made her lips twitch into a grin more reminiscent of her usual one. "That's a relief to hear. He seemed sort of strange over the phone last night—I guess he was just worried. He can get a little bit weird when it comes to you, Mr. Edgeworth."

Miles opened his mouth, then shut it.

"Oh, I didn't mean anything strange by it!" She waved her hands rapidly when she saw the expression on his face, as if trying to ward off the mere suggestion of impropriety.

_It's difficult to imagine a vocabulary where "strange" _isn't_ a synonym for "weird", but that's not the problem._

"Just, I guess I don't really entirely understand the whole 'passionate rivalry' thing—they don't have a lot of those when it comes to spirit mediums… though it would be kind of cool if they did!" Her hands bunched into fists, grin stretched ear to ear. She didn't look a day older than the first time he'd seen her dogging Wright's footsteps in the courthouse, alternately chiding and encouraging. "Impassioned chanting! Hot-blooded spirit-channeling!"

_Hot-blooded nonsense is more like it,_ he thought to himself. Regardless of how he felt concerning 'spirit mediums' and the rest of the hokum the gullible or desperate bought into, Maya was a friend, first and foremost.

Both his and Maya's heads swung to the left in unison at the sudden sound of a throat clearing.

Wright stood in the doorway, Pearl at his side, and a vase brimming with pink tulips stark against the blue of his suit. "Hot-blooded…" He trailed off with a shake of his head. "Do I even _want_ to know what you two were talking about?"

"Hi, Nick!" Maya called, waving. "I see you decided on the tulips!"

That earned her a look sour enough to curdle cream from Wright before he sighed it off. He turned towards the table along the wall, gaining a certain slump to his shoulders that told Miles the defense attorney was thinking something ridiculous, like he should have brought flowers sooner—as though Miles _wanted_ an itchy, stopped-up nose as an accessory to the dull pain in his side. It had been hard enough convincing the nurses that, yes, he really _did_ prefer them as far away from his bedside as possible.

_Besides, if getting them didn't occur to him in the first place, why bother to expend all the effort now? _

Pearl reached towards the vase of tulips in the crook of Wright's elbow.

"You go ahead and sit down next to Mystic Maya--" There was a certain emphasis on the 'next to Mystic Maya' as Pearl all but shoved Wright towards the hospital bedside. "--I'll take care of these!"

Wright had mentioned the younger Fey's matchmaking tendencies before with resigned affection, Miles remembered, but his stories hadn't done justice to the resolve with which she regarded Wright until he did as bidden. Once he was settled to her satisfaction, she turned back around to find a spot in which to wedge his botanical offering alongside the rest.

Wright inched the chair closer to the bed, "So, how are you feeling?" He peered at Miles's face with a scrutiny that not even Miles's doctor usually matched.

"Better," Miles replied, feeling no need to elaborate on the pain in his side.

"Mr. Edgeworth?" Pearl called from the other side of the room. Miles turned towards her. The vase looked almost comically large cradled in her small hands, tulips framing her face. "I'm terribly sorry, but I can't seem to find room for it on the table."

"Go ahead and set them on the floor," he said with a wave of his hand. He hesitated, hand still extended, as he turned back to Maya and Wright. Even on the best of days, Wright was as easy to read as a picture book. In this particular case, more like a picture book detailing how Miles had just shot Wright's puppy.

_I suppose he put more thought into it than I assumed_, Miles inwardly sighed. "On second thought, if you wouldn't mind bringing them over here, we could put them on the stand next to the bed."

Pearl stopped in mid crouch. "Would you like me to bring the orchids too?"

"No, just the tulips," Miles said, avoiding Wright's eyes. He felt flushed enough without further acknowledging Wright's embarrassing behavior.

"Playing favorites, huh, Mr. Edgeworth?" Maya chirped as Pearl set the vase down.

Wright's head jerked towards Miles. Miles didn't have to be a mind reader to understand that expression—mouth twisted into a compressed line of apprehension and doubt—either. He'd seen it yesterday in the trembling of Wright's hand as the reporter had burst into the room.

_What did you tell her?_ his expression asked.

"On the contrary," he said, tartly. His hands felt cold. "Choosing something _neutral_ is the antithesis of favoritism, wouldn't you say?"

Wright got the message. His expression melted into something more contrite—and unhappy.

"I'm sorry if all that stuff earlier about your harem made you uncomfortable. I didn't mean to pry," Maya said, ducking her head in apology. Even her hair bun seemed to wilt slightly.

"No," Miles sighed. "You have nothing to feel guilty about."

"What's this about a harem?" Wright said, displaying his instinct to unerringly latch on to both the most trivial and awkward part of any given conversation—or testimony.

"I was teasing Mr. Edgeworth earlier, about his flowers," Maya explained. "Pearly and I noticed most of them were from women and we kind of ran with it…"

"Oh, I see." Wright looked like he'd swallowed something with a faintly bitter aftertaste at the thought of discussing Miles's (fictional) love life. Miles's hands twisted a little harder against the bed sheets. _Do you even know what you want, Wright?_

Maya twitched under the oppressive silence, kicking her legs forward. Pearl, for her part, fled back to the relative sanctuary of Miles's flowers under the pretense of organizing the arrangements. Every so often she turned towards Wright and Maya, worrying the tip of her thumb against her lips.

"Are things going better at work?" Maya said, leaning forward past Wright once scuffing her sandals against tile lost its minimal appeal. "Um, non-romantically speaking, I mean!"

"Somewhat," Miles evaded. "It was a relief when Ms. Skye informed me that my cases had been redistributed."

"Lana came to visit you? But I thought…" Maya said. Wright turned towards his assistant with an unreadable look.

"No, her sister. Early this morning—_very_ early," Miles sighed. "I'm sure she or Detective Gumshoe will keep me appraised."

"I guess that's better than ten or fifteen people," Wright mumbled.

"What do you mean, Nick?"

"Since I fell ill so suddenly, I accepted updates and reports from here yesterday," Miles explained when Wright failed to answer. He looked morose.

Maya laughed. "I've heard of people taking work home, but I think this is the first I've ever heard of taking it to the _hospital_!" Then, turning to Wright: "You were here, Nick? That must have been a pretty funny to watch..."

"It was exhausting," Wright said. He stared at the IV tube to where it snaked underneath the blankets before he raised his eyes to Miles's face.

"And you didn't even have to do any of it," Miles shot back.

"Look, all I'm saying is that you need to take it easy. We don't want you to have to stay any longer than you have to," Wright said. His expression twisted into something too close to pity for Miles's comfort.

"I'm not sure I could take it any easier than I already am," Miles said. "Unless you want me comatose."

Miles waited for a response, but Wright's gaze fell towards the floor, eyes taking on a glassy look that signified a retreat into his own thoughts.

_He's taking this hospital stay harder than I am_. It should have made Miles feel a measure of concern or guilt, but he found himself shoving down a bitter mixture of irritation and anger instead. _Maybe I should ask the doctors to hook _him_ up to the machines and allow _me_ to go home, if he's so obsessed with making my discomfort his own_.

"So, um…hey, Mr. Edgeworth," Maya interjected. Edgeworth turned his attention on her. She glanced at Phoenix uneasily, fingers worrying against the cuff of her robes in short, distracted motions, before continuing, louder. "Are you going to have a scar once you're all healed up?"

"Yes, I will," he replied. He looked down towards his abdomen reflexively, thankful for the change in subject.

"That's so cool!" she exclaimed. She sounded a little too exuberant to be entirely natural, but the look on her face left little doubt that she honestly did think highly of scars for some reason.

Wright lifted his head. Apparently he echoed Miles's similarly confused sentiments; the look on his face mirrored his disbelief just as strongly as if he'd said it out loud.

"I don't really see--" he began. Maya turned towards him, cutting him off.

"It's _manly_, Nick!" she said, aghast at his inability to comprehend the intrinsic masculine quality of a two inch cut on the side of someone's stomach. "The only place that would be cooler is his face…"

"I'm sure Edgeworth will keep that in mind the next time he chooses which body part he'd like to be _hospitalized_ over," Wright replied.

She lapsed back into hurt silence, and Miles came to the uncomfortable realization that he nearly preferred it when Wright was downstairs.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Edgeworth. I was just thinking that there had to be _something_ positive to all of this…"

_How many times is she going to have to apologize today?_ The count was already too high, in his estimation.

"I'll shed a few excess pounds, at least," he said, attempting to lighten his voice and the mood. "And it's been a while since I've had the luxury of sleeping in."

"Just be glad you don't work with Nick," Maya said, motioning towards Wright. "Sleeping in is practically mandatory for him!"

Her smile wavered when neither man responded.

"Hey, you and Pearl were saying something about being hungry on the way, weren't you?" Wright said after a pregnant pause. He pulled out his wallet automatically. "Why don't you two go get something?"

"M-Mr. Nick, I'm fine!" Pearl said from where she stood across the room, a ribbon from one of the vases tightly entwined between her fingers as she regarded the scene playing out in front of her. "But, if you'd like to take Mystic Maya out to lunch, I'd be happy to keep Mr. Edgeworth company!"

Maya stood up slowly, as though her robes had suddenly turned to lead. She took a deep breath. "No, I'd rather go with you, Pearly!"

She plucked the wallet out of Wright's hand, and pulled out two twenties, before sticking out her tongue at him.

"With the mood he's in, Nick would just complain about whatever I got to eat," she exclaimed. Then, deeper: "_That's too expensive. You don't need two desserts. No, you can't have a bite of mine!_ It's like eating out with a _mother_."

"Maya…" Wright's voice came out strangled.

"Of course, on the other hand," she continued, tapping her index finger against her chin in mock concentration. "I'm not sure leaving him with poor Mr. Edgeworth is the best thing either…" She motioned towards Miles: "Do you want us to take him off your hands for you?"

"I think I can manage," Miles said. _I'm sorry_.

'_Don't worry; I'm used to it,'_ her grin seemed to say in return. Somehow that made him feel even worse.

"We'll bring something back for you, Nick," she said over her shoulder as she stuck out her hand towards Pearl. Pearl took it, and with one last glance behind on Pearl's half and a quick 'be back soon!' on Maya's, they were gone.

* * *

"We need to talk," Wright said as soon as the door swung to a close.

"Am I really the one you should be talking to?" Miles asked, glancing at closed door pointedly.

"I…" Wright began, running his fingers through his hair distractedly.

"I don't want to tell you what to do, but if this situation is going to have such a negative impact on your relationship with her, I'd rather just--"

"I was going to tell them," Wright whispered; Miles had to strain to hear him over the humming of machinery. "And then I heard Maya's voice, and it was like…"

Miles waited.

"I told myself I'd tell her in person, when they got here, but…" he trailed off again, hands clenching where they rested on his knees.

"I understand. This probably wasn't the most opportune of times to broach the subject," Miles sighed. Even though he was only peripherally involved in the girls' lives through Wright, something icy briefly pressed against his throat when he considered how different their cheerful greeting this morning could have been.

Wright looked up. "It's been really bothering you, huh?"

_How can I even begin answer that?_ Miles thought.

"It's not really a matter of 'bothering'," Miles said. "More that…it's none of my business."

Wright opened his mouth, but Miles continued before he could voice any objections.

"Maya Fey isn't my assistant, and I can count the times I've met Pearl Fey on one hand," Miles said. "Yes, I owe Maya more than I can ever repay. I'm very fond of her."

He took a deep breath.

"But that has nothing to do with the fact that you're a better judge of them than I am. I don't want to…" He paused, searching for the correct words. "…pressure you."

"You're not pressuring me," Wright said, an undercurrent of disbelief threading through his words.

"I don't want you to feel like you _have_ to do anything," Miles continued. "Whether it's about Maya knowing, or..."

"Or?"

"Anything else." He felt unaccountably heavy. This was something nameless, but not unexpected. Something he'd been waiting for since the evening Wright had pressed his lips to his of his own accord; since the night he'd looked up at Wright through the driver-side window of his car and heard the words 'so it's a date'.

"I don't think I like where this is going…" Wright mumbled lowly, exasperated. Then: "It's a little late to still be thinking these lines, don't you think? I already told you I'm here because I want to be."

_Yes, that's what you said, but…_

"...you don't seriously think that, do you? That you're guilting or forcing me into this?" Wright sounded terse, as though he was struggling to keep his words at the proper level of pressure.

"That's not exactly what I meant," Miles said, choosing his words carefully. This situation was becoming more volatile than he liked, and the last thing he wanted was to end up in an argument that would have Wright storming out of the hospital.

"So, what _do_ you mean?"

Miles sighed. There was no avoiding it at this point. "I know that all this isn't what you would choose for yourself."

Wright shook his head. "I still don't understand what you're..."

"You make…strange decisions when I'm involved. Like…" Miles eyes locked on Wright's badge, resting benignly as always against the defense attorney's lapel.

"You mean this?" Wright followed his line of sight. "Come on, Edgeworth, now you're just being--"

"You told me a long time ago you would have never become a lawyer if it wasn't for me."

"Yeah, but I didn't mean it in a _bad_ way."

Miles wasn't so sure about that. Those words, spoken in the aftermath of the Engarde trial, had a hint of the accusatory behind them, a lingering remnant from Wright's earlier anger. Even now, the pressure of what Wright had sacrificed for him was enormous. Every time he thought about it it, he felt his tongue dry in his mouth, like wringing water from a sponge. It was a looming debt he could never repay.

"Don't you ever wonder what would have happened if you became the stage actor you were studying to be?" Miles asked.

"Sometimes, but I think that's normal," Wright replied.

_It's _not _normal. What you did isn't normal._ Miles took a deep breath: "I don't want you to have regrets because you feel some bizarre obligation to look out for my happiness at the expense of your own."

Wright's mouth dropped. For a moment, Miles hoped that he'd been stunned into speechlessness, that an argument could be avoided all together.

"Why don't you ever listen to what I'm saying?!" Wright's voice started quiet, then grew louder, boiling thick and hot.

Instinctively, Miles felt his tone and pitch rise to match. "Because you don't make any sense!"

"Name me one time I've ever said—or even _implied_—I regretted choosing law—" Miles stared at Wright's hands clenched around the railings of the bed. "—or you!"

"You don't have to say anything. It'd be unnatural if you didn't have any misgivings over the things you've done," Miles said, modulating his tone back to professional with extreme effort. He thought of that look on Wright's face when Maya had teased Miles about playing favorites, terrified and accusatory. _You're not even aware of it_.

"I knew I wasn't going to like this discussion…"

"You were the one that wanted clarification." _I didn't want to talk about this either. I was hoping I'd never have to. How foolish of me…_

"What can I do to make you understand?" Wright's tone was defeated. He all but slumped back in his chair. "No matter what I do, it's never enough, is it?"

"It's not a matter of 'doing' something, Wright. If anything, you do too much." Dimly, as the words spilled from his mouth too fast for him to filter, he wondered if this hadn't been how Lana felt that afternoon, months ago. "You rush in regardless of the circumstances. You don't see a line between duty and choice. How can anyone be sure you do _anything_ by volition instead of your compulsion to save people from--"

"I love you."

Everything stopped.

Miles blinked away sunlight that was suddenly too bright, took a deep breath to calm a heartbeat that was suddenly too loud. Every atom of his focus turned towards Wright—the way Wright's Adam's apple bobbed in a nervous gulp when the other man's brain caught up with his mouth and informed him exactly what he had said; the way his pupils dilated slightly in thought; the way his hands trembled slightly against the steel railing of the bed.

The way the tension suddenly slipped from Wright's spine as if it had never been there in the first place as he came to his decision.

Miles's vision blurred.

"Edgeworth," Wright began, then lapsed into a short silence before continuing, tentatively. "It's true that this wasn't my first pick in the 'your life in thirty years' poll. But if we all had to live our lives according to that standard, Larry would be married to the cutest girl in our kindergarten class, I'd be an astronaut, and you'd…be a defense attorney."

"That's a ridiculous oversimplification," Miles managed, not very well.

"Maybe it is," Wright admitted. Then, slowly, testing the weight of the words in his mouth: "But even though we didn't meet under the nicest of circumstances…I don't know what I'd do without Maya…just thinking about it is…"

He shook his head. "And, even though law wasn't my first choice for a major, passing the bar was one of the proudest moments in my life."

He glanced down at his badge, then tucked his hand under his lapel and thumbed across the gleaming surface.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is…I'm happy," Wright said. "And maybe a little scared. But mostly happy."

Miles nodded. It was the only thing he trusted himself to do.

When it felt like his throat was working again, he said, "You still owe Maya an apology."

"You really are…" Wright shook his head, biting back laughter. "What happened to 'I don't know her as well as you do; I can't tell you what to say to her, blah-blah-blah'?"

"I'd have to be an idiot not to understand that you hurt her feelings," Miles replied.

"I know…" Wright's smile faded. "I'll make it up to her. And…" he took a deep breath, "I will tell her about everything that's been going on. Probably not today, but soon. I just want it to be…I don't want anything to go wrong…"

"I know," Miles said. He thought back to his non-conversation with his sister a day and a half ago. Of all the ways to he'd have chosen for her to find out, that wasn't exactly in the top ten. Not that Maya was anything like Franziska—Wright could announce his engagement to the sickly houseplant he kept sequestered in the corner of his office and she'd probably ask to help plan the wedding.

_But sometimes the waiting itself is still a risk, Wright. You might not ever get your perfect chance_…

* * *

"We're back," a voice announced. Miles looked towards the door. He saw two pairs of eyes peering through the crack, as though their owners still expected the verbal equivalent of bullets to be shooting back and forth.

_I suppose neither of us were particularly subtle_.

Wright followed his line of sight and sighed. The familiar mixture of exasperated affection was comforting, as was the rueful smile that followed.

"We're not going to bite, you two," he said, waving for both of them to come on inside.

Upon realizing that whatever had been making both of them so uncomfortable had been resolved—for the moment, at least—Maya opened the door wider and strolled in. Pearl trailed gingerly in her wake, like she was tiptoeing through a minefield.

"Here, we got you some chips!" Maya exclaimed once they reached the bed, tossing Wright a bright yellow bag. Wright took them with something less than enthusiasm, mumbling something about 'forty dollars down the drain'.

"If you were _that_ hungry, you should have come with us," Maya retorted.

"Judging by this, I'm not sure there would have been enough money," came Wright's rejoinder as he wrestled with the bag. After a few more moments of grappling, he pulled the bag open and took a handful of crumbs.

Miles knew it wasn't easy to eat potato chips with anything approaching grace, but Wright did a surprisingly passable job, unseemly crunching and rustling noises aside.

"So…are you ready to go?" Maya asked once he shook the last of the crumbs into his mouth.

Wright swallowed and blinked. "Go? Where?"

"To the office!" Maya took one of his hands and pulled him up out of his chair.

"Office?"

"Yeah, you know that place with your name on it? You inherited it from my sister?" Maya rolled her eyes, but her grip on his hand tightened. "You weren't planning on bugging Mr. Edgeworth all day, were you?"

"I…"

"Mr. Nick, I thought you'd be more sensitive!" That would be Pearl Fey, rolling back her sleeves. "Mr. Edgeworth is sick! He can't sit here entertaining guests all afternoon!"

As Wright threw up his hands and took a hesitant step back in the face of Pearl's irritation, Maya pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ears and once again leaned down low next to Miles's ear. Softly: "I'm sorry to come back and run like this, Mr. Edgeworth. It's just…we're probably going to have to go home tomorrow, and I at least wanted to…"

"I'm glad this gave you an excuse to visit," he murmured, unsure whether she could hear him above Wright's protests. "I imagine they're getting more and more difficult to come by."

_He needs you. Don't ever try to tell yourself otherwise_.

She swallowed tightly. Her fingers tightened against his in a wordless 'thank you' before she straightened and smoothed down the front of her robe.

"Pearly is right! You can't use a friend's illness to get out of work, Nick," she chided, effortlessly joining in the fray as though she never left.

Wright looked towards Miles, eyes wide in a silent plea for assistance.

"I am getting a little peaked," Miles said instead. Maya aside, if Wright expected him to condone his slothful tendencies, he'd obviously taken leave of his senses. Without the Feys, he'd probably be living in the same apartment complex as Detective Gumshoe, and making approximately the same rate of pay. "And I'm sure you three have some catching up of your own to do."

"All right, all right, I get it," Wright grumbled as he was tugged towards the exit. "I'll see you later," he said before he left, craning his head for one last look before the door clicked shut.

Miles sighed, partially in relief, when silence descended. The room seemed several times larger without voices and bodies to fill it. He shifted to a more comfortable position, wincing slightly as the movement made his side twinge in retaliation. As long as he was braving his body's wrath, he groped upwards to his pillow and shoved it further down to better support his head and neck.

Miles's eyes fell closed.

He knew there were things he needed to consider: making sure the proper files made it to the prosecutors that had added his cases to their workload, a meeting with the Chief Prosecutor next week that he was still woefully unprepared for—and, of course, his discussion with Wright.

But for once, his mind was gloriously blank. There were no plans, no concerns, hovering in the dark beyond his eyelids for him to put into order before he could snatch a few hours of sleep. Duty, obligation, _reality_ kept a respectful distance instead of jostling past the other in unending pressure.

'_I love you'_ fluttered in the air.


	9. Chapter 9

Struggling Against Gravity

Chapter Nine

As he stirred, the first thing Phoenix registered, back pressed against the smooth leather of Edgeworth's sofa, was that he was not as warm as he should have been.

His shifted his arm with a half-wince, fingers closing briefly around the empty space next to him, before sitting up in earnest. A glance around his surroundings told him that not only was Edgeworth, along with the comfortable warmth of his body, gone, but that Edgeworth's television was displaying the last legs of the evening movie's credit roll. He groaned and rubbed his eyes—he hadn't even _meant_ to fall asleep this time.

He cocked his head slightly when he heard the other man's voice coming from the kitchen—speaking in the professional, slightly stern pitch that meant someone from the Prosecutor's Office was responsible for dragging him from where they had both settled about two hours before. Phoenix's mood soured a little further.

Edgeworth had finally been released from the hospital a few weeks ago. His movements were still stiff enough to cause Phoenix occasional discomfort, but he seemed to be managing—or, at the very least, stubbornly refusing to complain, which, really, was a good sign in and of itself. But it was hard not to be a little disconcerted when the other man appeared to be thrust back into the midst of twelve-hour, back-to-back work days the instant he stepped out of the clinic. Today had been the first time since then that he and Phoenix had managed to do much more than check in with each other.

He straightened when he heard the click of Edgeworth replacing the phone on the wall, hoping that the summons would prove to be a red herring—and was quickly let down as the prosecutor walked past him in a straight line towards the door, one hand extended towards the coat rack for his jacket.

"You've got to go in?"

"I'm afraid so." Edgeworth slid his arms into the sleeves. "An unforeseen connection to one of my old cases came up in today's trial."

"So it's just fact-checking?" Phoenix asked. "Why can't they deal with it themselves?"

"Riverton _would_ have, if it were possible." Edgeworth frowned and Phoenix sighed inwardly; the prosecutor's mind was already long departed from the quiet, work-free comfort of the apartment. "It's a volatile case, Wright."

So Phoenix had heard. It didn't seem like a day had passed in the past week where the news _wasn't_ buzzing about the long-awaited culmination of the Cadaverini trial. He just hoped this particular round, for Edgeworth's sake, didn't involve any phony attorneys or investigations with espionage waitresses.

Knowing the importance of the case, though, didn't do much to make him feel any better—especially when he remembered one report that amounted to furious speculation about the likelihood of the team responsible for the investigation becoming hit job targets.

"You don't need to worry about my safety," Edgeworth said. His voice was almost amused—Phoenix found himself wishing, for what felt like the millionth time, that the people around him had mirrors attached so he could see whatever it was on his face that gave away his thoughts so easily. "My involvement is mostly unofficial. And if something was going to happen, it would have already."

"Yeah," Phoenix mumbled. "Just be careful, okay?"

The shadow on the side of Edgeworth's face looked suspiciously like the beginnings of a smirk: "I'll make sure to pass that onto the prosecutor in charge."

_At least humor me a little bit..._ He knew he was probably overthinking it; it wasn't as though Edgeworth hadn't handled delicate situations of this kind before. He shook his head, trying to move on to other thoughts.

It wasn't particularly difficult. There had been something weighing on his mind the day before last, anyway; something he probably needed to let Edgeworth know about before he left.

"I guess I should get going then, too."

Edgeworth glanced over his shoulder with a slight tilt of his head. "You can stay if you want."

"No," Phoenix said, standing up and crossing the room to retrieve his own jacket. "I should probably head back to my place to get my things together. I was just thinking about it, actually..."

"Is something going on?"

"It's Maya," Phoenix said. "She invited me to come up to Kurain tomorrow." He could still remember Maya's disbelieving laughter about the fact that between the two of them, _she_ was the one who had to remember and make plans for his birthday.

He didn't need a translator to interpret Edgeworth's piercing, questioning look and the way his hands came to an abrupt halt against his lapel.

"Yeah," he sighed, running a hand through his hair and looking very hard at the jacket hook. "I'm going to let her know. I've already..."

"What?"

_Written Iris,_ was on the tip of his tongue before he forced it back at the last second. Maya alone had become a sensitive enough subject. It didn't strike Phoenix as a good idea to bring the Hazakura nun into the trajectory of the conversation, too.

He shook his head again.

"Nevermind. Don't worry about it. I'm sure it'll be fine." The jacket zipper slid briefly from under his thumb as he added, "It's Maya, after all."

Edgeworth nodded, but distractedly; his earlier smirk was gone. Phoenix's gaze fell somewhere into the far corner of the room, near the doormat. If it had been someone else's situation, Phoenix probably would have found it funny and more than a little absurd that they both appeared to find this more troubling than Edgeworth throwing himself into the workings of a mafia case.

"Well," Phoenix mumbled, "I'm planning on spending the weekend up there, anyway." He adjusted the collar of his shirt. "Hey," he added, half on impulse, "do you think you might be able to...?"

_If he's there, it'll be harder to talk myself out of it at the last minute again..._

"I don't know," Edgeworth said, slowly. "I won't know until I'm able to get to the office and make a proper assessment of exactly what information is needed and where it will lead. I'll see what I can do, but it's probably... going to be difficult."

Phoenix did his best not to give away his disappointment. He'd expected the answer—when it came to matters of work, Edgeworth was exasperatingly impossible to negotiate with, no matter what he had said before about 'coworkers' being there to fill the gaps when he was gone.

"That's all right," he managed. "Don't worry about it. Good luck—don't push yourself too hard..." _Try to stay out of the way of any flying bullets._

"You're still saying that?" Edgeworth rolled his eyes, working to set the last clasp of his jacket in place. Then, more quietly: "You, too."

Phoenix's head lifted. He caught Edgeworth as he turned to collect his briefcase, and brought their lips together—not aggressive, but not quite soft, either. Edgeworth went still, and then Phoenix felt a warm hand against his cheek, its thumb pressed lightly against the curve of his jaw, as he returned the kiss.

"I'll call," Phoenix said, under his breath.

Edgeworth nodded. He lingered for a moment longer, and then he turned, opened the door, and was gone.

* * *

In addition to lacking many other modern amenities, Fey Manor did not have a doorbell.

Maya explained to him once that since few of the houses had traditional walls, most of the time the village residents called out when they were here to visit, but he'd never been able to shake the embarrassment of yelling at a building to announce his presence. Maya was usually waiting in front of the door, but not this time.

Phoenix slipped inside, feeling like he was somehow intruding. That feeling only grew more pointed when he reached the training hall and realized it wasn't empty—as it had been every other time he'd been to Kurain—but instead filled with young girls sitting in rigid rows.

The very air seemed thicker—tense with concentration and crackling with energy.

_Spiritual power?_ he wondered, keeping to the back of the room.

Even if Phoenix hadn't been looking for Maya, she would have been impossible to miss, but perhaps easy to mistake for someone else. She moved purposefully from row to row, checking posture and gently correcting any slouching spines or tilting heads with a nudge or touch—the very image of a teacher.

"Hey," she admonished when she reached one of the younger girls near the end of the second line. Her low chuckle undermined whatever force there might have been behind the exclamation. "You're supposed to relax your body, not fall asleep!"

"Sorry…" the girl mumbled, rubbing the corner of her eye before closing it again and sitting up straighter.

As Maya straightened, her eyes met his. She smiled in acknowledgment before walking back to the front of the room and clapping twice. "All right, everyone! I think that's enough for today!"

The atmosphere abruptly shifted into something Phoenix was infinitely more familiar with, even though it had been years since he'd felt the same excitement that came with the end of an elementary school day.

He moved away from the door to accommodate the sudden rushing flow of acolytes, inwardly marveling over the shift from dignified spirit mediums-in-training to normal little girls. Most of them ignored him in their haste, but a few glanced at him and scowled, or elbowed each other in the arm and giggled.

When the hall was empty, Maya made a change of her own, shedding the image of an instructor like someone might slough off a heavy winter coat. She rushed towards him.

"Nick, you made it!" Her hug squeezed all the air out of his lungs. "I was wondering if you were even going to show up!"

"I was just a little late…" he protested. _It was out of my hands._

"What, no complaining about how bad the roads are this time of year?" She smiled, moving back to take him in like she hadn't seen him in years.

"It was worth it. I was really looking forward to seeing you guys," he said.

She blinked, then punctuated her laughter with a stinging slap to his back. "Don't say things like that all of a sudden. It's creepy!"

Creepy? Hey…

"Well, it is true you haven't been up here in about forever," she said. "What's it been now, about five months...?"

Phoenix was pretty sure it was more like seven—before he and Edgeworth had begun to see one another. He hadn't realized it had actually been that long until now. "Yeah, somewhere around there, I think..."

"Well, come on, I'll show you to your room, and then we can play catch up," she said. "But first..." She looked down the hall pointedly.

"Huh?" Phoenix's brows furrowed in confusion.

"Aren't you forgetting something, Nick?" she prompted.

His bag was firmly against his side; he hadn't brought anything else. If she was expecting a present, both she and Pearl would have to wait until he unpacked his bag for the evening for him to dig out the small items he'd brought for them.

"I…don't think so?"

"Your _shoes_, Nick." She sighed as though the weight of the world hung heavy on her shoulders. It was unfortunately similar to the sound Edgeworth made when Phoenix walked into the bedroom after a shower, dripping water all over the hardwood flooring. "Honestly, how many times have you been here? Come on back."

Obviously not often enough for me to lose sleep over the floors of her house…

"Flooring doesn't grow on trees, you know," she said as they walked across the room.

_I'm pretty sure _wood_ does, in fact, grow on trees. _But rather than outwardly protest, he leaned down and removed his shoes, then fit them into an empty slot on the large shoe cabinet that took up the entire wall of one side of the meditation chamber.

"You could probably fit the entire village's shoes on this thing," he remarked.

"Sometimes I have to," Maya replied, offering him a pair of sandals. "The hall isn't just used for training."

As he leaned down to put them on, the mental image of the entire village showing up for something like karaoke night passed briefly through his head before dissipating. It was probably safer to assume the training hall also doubled as the town hall, but somehow it was easier to imagine the Maya he knew and loved organizing the former instead of the latter.

It still felt strange as they walked through the halls of Fey manor. He was so used to seeing Maya as a sort of otherworldly interloper, with her odd robes and hairstyle, that it become disorienting seeing her in a place like this—where _she_ was the one that fit in with her surroundings and he, in his faded blue jeans and t-shirt, was foreign, out of place.

He couldn't be entirely sure, but something seemed different since the last time he had been here, like the decorations had changed. He thought Maya once mentioned that all the rooms were decked out according to the seasons, but he wasn't a regular here enough to spot the difference outright.

But then, he wondered if Maya had any inkling of the differences that had taken place in his own spaces, down at the office, in his apartment and in his life, the way he looked at a certain other person—if she had the same impression of him, as though something was imprecisely ajar from her understanding of the picture.

"You know, technically, you've been here enough times to know the way to your own room," she said as they walked down a vaguely familiar hallway, near the garden.

"Technically, it's not 'my' room," he replied.

"It's the room you sleep in when you're up here, and you're dodging the subject, Nick!"

"It's not my fault your house is easy to get lost in," he said. _I wonder if it feels empty sometimes, with just her and Pearls here at night..._

As Maya bounced a few steps ahead of him it was easy to think, and equally tempting to act as though, nothing was remotely out of place, to begin formulating another excuse to avoid confirming those unspoken differences one way or another.

_Pull it together,_ he told himself, tightening his grip on his bag. He tried to recall Edgeworth's face as the prosecutor had stared down at the hospital sheets, unwilling to admit outright that the silence had long been bothering him. _It's going to be today. It has to be._

* * *

When they reached 'his' room, Maya turned and motioned to the small, round table that sat close to the floor. Phoenix stepped inside and Maya pulled the door shut, blocking out the view of Winding Way—one of the few manor locations he knew by name-and the garden.

"There we go. I'm sure the place is already buzzing, so let's get a little privacy."

Phoenix had to bite back a sigh. Even if his presence was still unusual, by now he'd been often up here enough that he didn't know what it was that make his appearance still so fascinating and volatile to the women who lived here.

_Anyway, I'm not sure how much privacy you can have when your walls are made of paper,_ he thought as he took his seat. Maya flopped down next to him, robes spreading across the floor. Her body swerved back, and for a second Phoenix thought she was ready to fall over outright.

"You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"Yep, just a little tired," Maya said—her body realigned itself, like a paperclip being bent back straight. "I'm so glad you're here, Nick. Sometimes this place can feel so suffocating..."

_More than my cramped two room apartment?_ Phoenix found that hard to believe. This guest room was larger than his own bedroom, even if the décor wasn't really his style.

"You should come to town more often, then," he said, trying to make his voice light.

"Believe me, I've _love_ to," Maya said. "I'll tell you what, you can take over my duties here, and I'll run the office for you for a little while! How's that sound?"

_Sounds scary, in more ways than one..._ Somehow, he couldn't see himself standing in front of a classroom, guiding pupils the way he had seen Maya do—but then, he admitted to himself, it probably wasn't long ago that imagining Maya herself in such a position would have seemed bizarre, too.

"Are you sure it was okay to let your class go early like that?" he asked.

"Well, it's probably a little late to ask that now," she teased. "But it wasn't that early. We were just about to wrap things up. So, I guess, for once you had perfect timing!"

"You teach like that every day?" Phoenix said.

"Just about," Maya replied. "Well, I try to give them weekends, too, but it doesn't always work out that way. I don't know if you've noticed, but we've actually expanded our ranks a little since you've been here last."

He hadn't noticed, exactly, but it didn't surprise him. The incident at Hazakura seemed to have lessened some of the stigma that the Kurain practice had incurred since the incident with Edgeworth's father—or at least, triggered further curiosity among the masses. "So you have more trainees?"

Maya nodded. "They can be a handful sometimes," she said, a thoughtful hand pressed against her cheek. "They may be spiritualists, but they're still young girls, after all. It's hard to keep them in the village at all, sometimes, let alone focused. I've been having to track down a lot of them when they cut duties to play around in the town a few miles down..."

_If _she _managed to become the Master, burger-eating antics and all, I'm sure they'll turn out fine..._

"The Elders talk about how we're drifting too far from our roots, connecting too much to the modern world, but I don't think there's any avoiding it, you know? Or even if there's something wrong with it in the first place. I'm closer to the trainees' generation than theirs, after all—I mean, I'm always finding myself wishing I could use my cell phone around here, too!"

_Believe me, you don't have to be a Kurain resident to wish for that._ The inconvenience had left Phoenix frustrated more than a few times during his visits as well.

Maya's voice lapsed into a quiet hum, but as soon as Phoenix realized she was probably waiting on him, she spoke up again, filling the empty space between them. "Well, none of that is really important right now, right? We have better things to talk about. Like you getting old and gray! Must be hard to get used to those creaking bones, huh, Nick?"

"Uh, sure." _You've been calling me old since we first met, so it doesn't really take _that _much adjustment... _

"It's sort of funny," Maya went on, "thinking about how long we've known each other. How old were you when we met?" Her eyebrows quirked. "Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty...?"

"..._four,_" Phoenix amended for her, and Maya's smile took on the gleam of someone pleased their bait had been swallowed. He further indulged her with a sigh. "Twenty-four." _She's right, though. Time flies... it's easy to forget she's not a teenager anymore, too._

"So how's—" they both began at the same time, then stopped and laughed.

"You first, Nick."

"How's Pearls doing? I didn't see her with the other kids…"

"Oh, didn't I ever tell you?"

_She almost never has a lot to say about this place_…

"Pearly doesn't go to regular training classes," Maya explained with a wave of her hand. "She's, well, I guess you could say that…considering our circumstances, she's next in line to inherit. You know, just in case someone poisons me in my sleep, or murders me while I'm at dinner!"

Morbidity aside, isn't that a little backwards?

"Besides, even if she wasn't, she's way too advanced for the beginning classes! Heck, she could probably be _my_ tutor; you know how smart she is, Nick!"

"Yeah…" There had been times when the younger spirit medium had made him feel about six years old himself.

"But, as for what she's doing right now…hmmm, I'm pretty sure she's in her calligraphy session! It's either that or flower arranging. I always get her schedule mixed up."

Phoenix nodded. Somehow, both seemed very 'Pearl'.

"Do you want me to call her?" Maya asked.

"Ah…uh, no, that's okay," Phoenix said. He rubbed his hand against the side of his pants in an awkward, abrupt motion. "Actually…there's something I want to tell you."

"You sound so serious," she replied, smile unwavering as she leaned forward across the table. "What happened? Can't pay the rent? You lost the office in a poker game? I _guess_ since the village is doing pretty well, I can lend you some money, but don't expect a break on the interest!"

"No, it's—" he broke off. Just like before, all the words, the explanations he had planned vanished from the very moment he'd opened his mouth.

"Nick, am I _that_ scary?" Maya's voice grew warmer, and Phoenix suddenly had the feeling that this wasn't coming as a surprise to her. He felt himself dare to relax a little bit. "What's the worst thing you could have done? You didn't really lose the office, did you?"

"No, it has nothing to do with the office," he said.

Maya laughed. "Are we playing twenty questions? Maybe I should call up Mr. Edgeworth for help with this cross-examination!"

He still couldn't stop from reflexively flinching slightly when Edgeworth's name come from Maya's lips. _Why is this so hard? It's Maya, for pete's sake!_

"All right, all right, I won't push." Maya sat back, leaning on her elbows for support. "I know you'll talk to me eventually, when you're ready."

_I _am_ ready! It's part of the reason I'm here in the first place!_

But Maya continued on to a subject she probably assumed was less volatile. "Speaking of Mr. Edgeworth, how is he doing? Did he make it out of the hospital okay, Nick?"

"Yeah, he's fine," Phoenix replied, somewhat distractedly. He made himself continue. "He's... actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Huh? Why?" she asked, sitting up straight, "there isn't something wrong with him, is there? I noticed you two seem to be fighting a lot lately, but I thought...I don't know, maybe it was some rival thing."

"Not exactly..." He resisted the urge to clench his eyes shut. "We're, uh... seeing one another."

Once the words finally left Phoenix's lips, a rush made of equal parts relief and trepidation washed through his entire body, leaving him light headed in the aftermath. He found himself focused on Maya's face, waiting for any little twitch that would signify the forthcoming outpouring of shock and questions.

She blinked.

"Seeing Mr. Edgeworth? I don't…you've been taking cases?"

"No, not _seeing_ seeing. We're, ah, _together_. Dating." The clarification tumbled out of his mouth in a staccato pulse. Maya stared. Outside, the sound of running water from the outer garden seemed to grow to a distant roar.

The peal of laughter that followed was so unexpected that he jerked slightly. He shifted as she continued to laugh, face red.

"Oh man, you really had me going for a second, Nick," she exclaimed, wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye with the edge of her sleeve. "So what's _really_ bothering you?"

Of all the reactions he'd envisioned, outright rejection of the notion had never occurred to him. "That _is_ what I wanted to talk about," he protested, but it sounded half-hearted even to his own ears.

The giggle this time sounded slightly nervous. "Come on, repeating the joke isn't going to get me to fall for it; I'm not…" Her smile quivered as she stared at his face.

"I'm not joking."

Somehow, with each repetition, the words became easier to say, and he realized that it was the first time he'd ever had to say them out loud to another person.

He waited, watching as her eyes bored into his own, as though trying to divine his thoughts. Any second now, something would click. And then, for sure, a thunderous yell of shock before she started bombarding him, demanding to know all the details.

As the moment stretched to its breaking point, his heart started to pound. He could almost hear the blood rushing through his veins. _Maya...?_

"You're serious, aren't you?" Her voice was quiet and, to Phoenix's ears, strangely neutral—even tentative. Though she was looking straight at him, her focus seemed to be on something past him and only visible to her, her fingers worrying small circles into the folds of her clothes.

"Yeah," Phoenix said—half of him wanted to lean forward, towards her; the other was afraid to move, as though something invisible was at risk of breaking. "I'm serious."

"So how long have you two been…" she paused to moisten her lips after a long moment, "…been together, like this?"

"About half a year." His own voice sounded far away to his ears. Prickles of foreboding ran up his back; as soon as the words left his mouth, they sounded harsh, even to him.

Maya's head drooped slightly, bangs obscuring her eyes. "So, that was... before Pearly and I came to visit." She exhaled slowly. "I see. That's really..."

"Maya, I..." Phoenix began. This wasn't right.

"That's…I mean, um. I'm sorry, I don't really know what to say…" Her throat seemed to work convulsively around the words. "C-congratulations, I guess, huh? I'm really, really—"

She stood up, scrubbing at her right eye furiously. "I think I better go…go check on Pearl. She should be getting out of calligraphy, or, uh, flower arranging, and I need to…need to talk to…"

Phoenix's hand darted out towards her on its own accord; apparently his arm had guessed Maya's intentions before he did. But it was futile: Maya had already turned and vanished through the doorway, as though his room was an underwater cage and she had to get away from him in order to breathe.

He was left alone, arm frozen in midair. The only sound was of distant, running water from the outer gardens.

"Maya!"

Phoenix's brain finally caught up with him; his feet followed suit shortly after. He pushed himself from the ground and began forward, the slap of his borrowed sandals sounding unnaturally loud against straw mats. "Maya, wait! Maya!"

He passed through the doorway and towards the Winding Way—nearly knocking over the stand holding the sacred urn in his haste—and practically slammed the door to the central meditation chamber open. Its wide space expanded in a hazy, almost dreamlike manner. The light of the setting sun glowed soft red against the wooden floorboards. Before him, Phoenix's shadow felt long and heavy.

Maya was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Whatever Phoenix's determination to find Maya was, Maya's determination to keep from being found apparently outmatched it. He'd long since lost track of how many doors he'd slammed open to find his assistant, only to be met with disconcertingly similar-looking, empty rooms.

Trekking deeper into the mansion hadn't helped matters either. After about ten minutes of searching, he'd managed to make his way to Maya's room, but the lights were off and there was no sign she had come in this direction at any point in time. Assorted depictions of the Steel Samurai seemed to glare at him from the doorway before he slid the door shut with a quiet sigh and walked away.

_What is she thinking...?_

Even the designs on the tapestries hanging from the walls seemed less spiritual and soothing and more accusing and hostile.

Phoenix turned a corner and saw his room across the way, lit like a paper lantern glowing in the encroaching twilight. The comparative warmth seemed to beckon him. His steps quickened and he allowed himself the faint hope that Maya had returned while he was wandering around the grounds.

Said hopes were summarily cut short when he opened his door and found himself faced with an empty room. Feeling resigned, he stepped forward and let himself sit-_just for a second-_long enough to allow the growing ache in his heels begin to disperse throughout the muscles of his feet-and began collecting his thoughts.

He registered sound before registering light; the door in front of him slid open, and Phoenix startled badly enough to rise automatically. A familiar girl walked in, snapping Phoenix out of his trance as though ice water had been thrown onto his face. It took him a second to realize this girl was far too small to be the one he was looking for.

"Mr. Nick!" Pearl exclaimed. Her training robes were slightly different from the ones Phoenix was used to seeing her in, dotted with small beads and reaching past her knees—she _had_ been getting bigger.

It took a moment and a few swallows for Phoenix to locate his voice. "Uh, hi there, Pearls..."

Part of him was genuinely happy to see her. But there was another, warier part that almost made him retreat several steps as she approached him—Pearl's fits of anger whenever she felt that he somehow slighted the girl she decided was his "special someone" tended to leave him in no small amount of pain, and that was when they _weren't _based in anything resembling fact.

"I'm glad to see you arrived safely." She beamed up at him. Between her hands was an ink-splotched piece of parchment that Phoenix could only assume was some sort of mystical Japanese character. By the looks of it, the ornate calligraphy hadn't quite dried.

"Y-yeah," he mumbled. He couldn't think of anything else to say. "Thanks."

"It's nearly time for supper, so I thought I should come to get both of you," Pearl said. "Where's Mystic Maya? Isn't she here with you?"

_I was just wondering if you knew the same thing._ "Er—no," Phoenix admitted. He fiddled with the corner of his sleeve—maybe he'd picked the habit up from Edgeworth—before saying, "I was looking for her, actually. I couldn't find her, so I came back here."

Pearl's hair loops appeared to twitch, much in the image of an inquisitive rabbit perking up its ears. "Really? That's strange... Mystic Maya should have finished teaching by now. She was very worried about finishing in time for your arrival, Mr. Nick."

"It did finish." Phoenix's mind raced briefly. "She told me she was going to check on you, Pearls. You haven't seen her?"

Pearl's brow furrowed; some of the sunniness in her expression clouded into uncertainty. As she shook her head, Phoenix felt the nausea swirling in his gut become sharper.

"Um, is something the matter...?" Pearl asked. Her grip on the parchment tightened, and the ruined ink began to drip down into her sleeves.

"No," Phoenix said quickly. Just about every instinct he possessed did not want to even contemplate the possible consequences of recounting the nature of his earlier confession to Pearl—especially now.

She looked thoroughly unconvinced. "What is troubling you, Mr. Nick?"

"Nothing," he said. Then, confusion overpowering instinct, "It's just... Pearls, has Maya been mad, or upset with me, for some reason? I mean... has there been anything..."

The response was both near-instantaneous and a sharp, painful reminder of just how piercing the younger Fey's stare could be. Her calligraphy project crumpled entirely beneath her fingers as the light in her eyes gained a piercing scrutiny capable of making adults far older than her squirm.

"...did you and Mystic Maya fight?" Her voice was quiet.

Phoenix flinched. "No," he answered, hoping that the act of shaking his head would make the answer more convincing, "It's not like that..."

Pearl's brow furrowed, betraying obvious skepticism. Phoenix couldn't blame her—if he were testifying in a court of law, any attorney worth their salt would have been salivating over the obvious weakness of that statement.

"Then..." Her mouth met the edge of her darkened thumbnail. "Then... why do you look so upset?"

"I'm not upset. Really—I think there was... just a misunderstanding." _No, there wasn't,_ an internal voice immediately countered_. That's exactly the problem. _He forced it down for the time being. "It's nothing bad, Pearls. I promise. I just need to find her so we can talk a few things out. Don't worry..."

Pearl said nothing. Then she finally broke her gaze from his, taking a deep breath. His attempt at reassurance seemed to have closed the book on her appraisal of the situation.

"Mystic Maya says," she said, very slowly, "whenever she needs to think, she goes to see her sister."

The sheer obviousness of it hit Phoenix like a brick about a second after the words left Pearl's mouth.

_Of course. Why didn't I think of it before..._

After thanking her, he began to turn, trying to quickly map out in his head how to make his way back to the manor's front entrance.

"Mr. Nick," Pearl said. Her voice was quiet, but every word was clear, and Phoenix felt himself stop. "I think Mystic Maya has been very lonely."

It wasn't anything Phoenix hadn't heard before, whenever she had insistently tried to insinuate that he and Maya should to 'act on their feelings', but something in her voice felt different this time—heavier.

"Being the Master has been very difficult for her. Not everyone in the village gives her the proper respect. Sometimes they even say terrible things about her when they think she isn't listening..." Pearl's eyes lowered. "She tries not to let me see it, but I can tell. I've been trying not to be a burden, but... there's only so much that I can do..."

"Why," she continued, "haven't _you_ been there for her more, Mr. Nick?"

_That's..._

Her tone was different from the times she had scolded him with the same words in the past—thinner and brittle around the edges. Whatever she had concluded about the situation, it was apparently enough to push her beyond the realm of indignant, matchmaking anger and straight into something else—something colder.

Something that Phoenix realized had been festering for some time.

Feeling his mouth become dry, he started, "Pearls, I wasn't..."

She didn't let him finish. "Mr. Nick, if..." she said, with a deathly seriousness that nearly made Phoenix retreat a step, "If you hurt Mystic Maya, I'll never forgive you."

"I know you wouldn't," he said. He began to reach a hand towards her, tentative, and when she didn't move, let it drop again.

_Both of them..._

Pearl was silent, but she continued to stare at him with an almost defiant intensity. A flash of memory tugged at the corner of Phoenix's mind: eight years old and somewhat shorter, face somewhat rounder, clinging to his suit and sobbing until her voice gave out when they had failed to rescue Maya after the first day of Matt Engarde's trial.

Somehow he had failed to realize that the time passing since then meant that she would grow in more ways than just height.

Phoenix nodded to her, awkwardly, before taking off at a shaken stride down the manor hallway and trying to clear his head long enough to remember the route to Maya's sister—the only place left for her to be.

* * *

The resting places of Mia Fey and Diego Armando were fairly removed from the village proper. Phoenix hadn't asked Maya about the reason—he had the feeling that it was a difficult subject, and he could make his own guesses based on Armando's history with the Feys—but he had seen the site where Kurain buried its other residents, adorned in elaborate ritual that this location lacked. But in spite of that—or perhaps because of that—Phoenix thought that they still held a quiet dignity appropriate for the woman who had saved his life and taught him law.

And it wasn't as though they weren't completely barren. Wrapped bouquets of flowers that couldn't have been more than a few days old adorned both graves.

The disappointment of Maya's absence felt akin to a heavy blow to the chest. Apart from this place and the manor Phoenix had no idea where else to even start looking—and it seemed more and more pointless to him to keep attempting it when Maya clearly didn't want to be found. Assuming she hadn't run to the bus stop and left the premises altogether.

Even worse was the gnawing guilt, ever since his talk with Pearl—though for what, exactly, he still wasn't sure, no matter how many times he replayed the earlier scene in his mind. _Because I told her? Because I didn't?_

For all of his frustration in trying to understand and deal with Edgeworth's various complexes, he found himself at just as much of a loss now that the heavy, winding emotion crushed against his own back. He'd denied it to Pearl and tried to deny it to himself—but now it seemed as plain as day.

_I hurt her._

Phoenix's breath misted the air in front of him. The sun had almost completed its slump behind the horizon, leaving an expanse of night sky behind.

_Was it that I didn't tell her sooner?_

His earlier answer of "almost half a year" to Maya's question hung as an unspoken echo against his mind, almost accusatory.

_I wasn't trying to shut her out,_ he thought,_ I didn't know what was going on most of the time with Edgeworth and me either..._

He rubbed his temples, feeling a pounding forming beneath his skull, replaying what Pearl had told him—trying to make it connect into a picture he could understand.

_Or... should I have taken Pearl's fairy tales more seriously?_

His mind raced back. Maya had laughed at him in Hazakura, jabbing him in the ribs, forming teasing heart shapes with her thumbs and forefingers. Her sing-song voice spelled out I-R-I-S over Phoenix's muffled—and somewhat pained—protests.

_No, that can't be it. _

But the image of Maya's dejected expression sprung up again in the old memory's place, carrying renewed misgiving with it.

_Can it?_

If Iris were here, Phoenix thought, she would probably be able to assess the situation more clearly than he could hope to with an entire evening of tortured speculation. Even at what he had thought was the worst of times several months ago—a situation not entirely unlike this one, come to think of it—just the sound of her voice had made things seem like they could turn out right again, had clarified before him what it was he had to do to put things back...

He had his phone out when he remembered the letter he had sent with only slightly trembling fingers a few scant days ago. And the idea of listening to more silence, straining with unspoken tension and short bursts of nervous laughter and uneasy dismissal from not one—but two people whose unconditional support he thought he could always depend on—was more than he thought he could bear.

His gaze fell back onto the pair of graves set into the earth before him.

"Mia," he muttered, shoving the phone back into his pocket. "What on earth is going on with your sister...?"

"I wonder."

Phoenix's heart was thrown off by what felt like a hundred beats; he half-turned, half-jumped around to face the source of the reply behind him, but the odd hybrid of movement only succeeded in making him trip over himself and, painfully, onto the more recent of the two graves.

His old mentor, long deceased, but features still unmistakable even with brown hair that wasn't hers, pulled back into signature loops—smiled down at him, eyes sparkling with faint amusement.

"It's been some time, Phoenix."

_Almost two years... I was beginning to think she was gone for good._ He could still remember Mia's quiet, murmured "thank you" in the aftermath of the incident with Diego Armando and her mother, and wondering in the months of no contact afterward if those words had also been a simultaneous "goodbye".

"Mia," he said again, once he had managed to clamor back to his feet and issue a word of silent but fervent apology to Armando. "Pearls called you?"

Mia plucked at the hem of Pearl's robes, outfitted for an eleven year old-in other words, still rather too small around her body for Phoenix's complete comfort. "Well, you managed to leave her very upset earlier, Phoenix."

Phoenix swallowed. _I know._

"How did you know I was here...?"

"It wasn't too hard to guess," Mia said. "Or was I wrong in assuming that Fey Manor, the bus stop, and here are about the only places around Kurain you know how to find without Maya's help?" Phoenix spluttered; her smile widened, before she moved forward to inspect the two stone markers.

It struck Phoenix how deeply strange and deeply morbid it must be to be standing over your own grave, but Mia seemed largely unperturbed. Her eyes lingered a little more on Diego Armando's name than her own, and Phoenix wondered, suddenly, if Mia perhaps had her own reasons for coming here, too.

"I guess you know what's going on," he murmured, running an uneasy hand through his hair.

"More or less," Mia said. "At least, based on what I could pick up from Pearl's emotions and my own observations."

"_Observations"?_ Phoenix wondered, slightly unnerved. _Do I even want to know?_

"Hey, Mia. Should I..." He swallowed again, still not quite able to believe that it had come to asking this, and meaning it. "Should I have listened more to Pearls? I mean..." His voice began to trail away, out of his control. "Does Maya really—feel something for me? I mean, more than..."

Without so much as a second of consideration, Mia laughed.

_H-hey! I'm really at a loss here...!_

"Come on, Phoenix," she said, still chuckling. "Give yourself at least a little bit of credit. You know her better than that."

"But—"

"Let me put it this way," Mia said, raising a hand to divert his protests. "She's a little more conscious of it, but she mostly feels the same way about things that you do."

The disbelief that practically flooded into his mouth had a distinctively acidic taste to it.

"No, no, I don't mean she has feelings for Miles Edgeworth," Mia clarified, using the same admonishing, slightly exasperated tone as when, years ago, she had pointed out his many weaknesses in legal protocol. "Goodness, you _are_ shaken, aren't you?"

He relaxed. "You could say that..." _As a complete understatement, anyway._

"You know," Mia continued, "I went through something similar with her." She leaned forward to inspect the bouquet resting against the Armando's tombstone, stuffed with flowers that, even lit only by the moonlight, shone an almost harsh shade of red. Her fingers brushed gently against a few of the petals. "It was shortly after I left the village to study law."

"Something similar?" Phoenix found it difficult to imagine Mia doing or saying anything to hurt her sister's feelings badly enough that it fueled the desperate intervention of an eleven-year-old girl.

"Yes. I was living in the city at the time, of course, so it was a little different in that I heard about what I had done after the fact, from Aunt Morgan, rather than being face to face."

"...what happened?"

Mia paused. "I told her about how things were going, Phoenix. My studies, my friendship with Lana... the life that I was making for myself."

Phoenix frowned. He tried to recall Maya's reaction when Lana's name had come up over dinner conversation. She hadn't seemed the least bit troubled by the remembrance of the former Chief Prosecutor then; quite the contrary, in point of fact, once things had fallen into place. "But I thought she never actually got to meet...?"

"She didn't," Mia said. "You see, it really had nothing to do with Lana at all. And this has nothing, really, to do with Edgeworth."

"I'm not sure I understand..."

"You will," Mia said. Phoenix wished her apparent confidence did more to inspire his own. Her expression softened a little. "As I said earlier, give yourself a little more credit. You and Maya have been together for a long time. Put things in perspective and think it through." Her smile returned. "Outside the box, if you will."

Phoenix felt his fingernails begin to release their long-held grip from the skin of his palms. Though he still wasn't sure what she was trying to get at, Mia's apparent lack of even remote concern about the matter was somehow enough to put him more at ease.

And with Mia's voice came certain memories, things seemed to drift back to him as though forming links to a chain—Maya, holding her cell phone to her ear as though it might break, tears streaming down her face as she listened to the sound of her dead sister's voice—clutching at the bullet that had decided Edgeworth's fate during the trial with von Karma—Matt Engarde, Shelly de Killer, and a crumbling, burning bridge at Hazakura.

And it suddenly seemed ridiculous to think that there was even a possibility that he—or Maya, for that matter—would let something like this make a difference to what was between them.

"Yeah," Phoenix said. "Thanks, Mia."

"I didn't do anything that needs thanks. You just needed to be reminded of a few things, that's all." The last few words were punctuated with that note in her voice that he recognized as the signal that she had said all she felt she had to.

Phoenix looked at her. It didn't feel like enough to simply accept her advice and let her fade away again, especially after two years. But no matter how much he wanted to, he didn't know how to translate his gratitude into words—he never did. His eyes moved briefly back onto the gravestones framing her on either side.

"By the way, Mia..." He hesitated. "...how are things with you and him?"

A look of faint surprise overcome Mia's face. Then that particular soft—not quite sad, but soft, enough to border on gentle melancholy—smile graced her lips, crinkling the corners of her eyes. Phoenix had only caught faint glimpses of it while she was alive, in the quiet spaces between work when she lingered on the photograph that sat the corner of her desk, a remnant of her time working for Grossberg Law Offices.

"We're doing fine." She folded her hands over one another in her lap. "Just fine."

She straightened.

"Pearl was in quite the emotional state when she channeled me," Mia said, once again fingering the hem of the too-small robes, "So she did it rather sloppily. She's going to be rather exhausted and confused when she comes back. I think I'm just going to go ahead and put her to bed while I'm here..."

"Right," Phoenix said, watching her move past him. He found himself reaching for something more, unsure when he would see her again, if ever.

"Happy birthday, by the way, Phoenix," Mia said, pausing to glance over her shoulder. Phoenix blinked once, then shoved a rueful hand into his pocket as he watched her go—he was still no match for her.

One last smile touched her lips. "And congratulations."


End file.
